Rock Legend

Book 2: Nothing but Trouble

by Tara Leigh

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; New Adult Romance; Workplace Romance

Synopsis

In this emotional and "gripping rock-star romance that hits all the right notes" ( USA Today Happy Ever After), a damaged bad boy fights for a second chance with the love of his life. I'm no Prince Charming. Most people know me as the drummer for Nothing but Trouble. Depending who you ask, I'm also a playboy, a loner, the life of the party, a screw-up, or according to my fans, "The Sexiest Rock Star on the Planet." Apparently, I'm a legend. Am I surprised? Hell, no. It's a reputation I've earned behind my drum kit and behind closed doors. No one thought foster kid Landon Cox would become famous. Infamous, maybe. Notorious, probably. But successful? Never. No one except Piper Hastings. But I had to make a choice: my woman or my career. I picked fame and fortune... and spent every damn day since pretending I don't regret it. Now fate's dropped Piper back into my life. I want to believe it's a second chance for me - for us. But while I can give her a few great nights, I can't give Piper a future. Because there's a difference between a legend and a fairy tale... Only one of them ends happily ever after."You will love this drama filled emotional read that is full of heated exchanges and heart-pounding romance." - Fresh Fiction on Rock King

Release date: July 17, 2018

Publisher: Forever Yours

Print pages: 368

Sample

Chapter One

I would have missed the call, but I’d just flung my purse into my car, the contents spilling out onto the passenger-side floor mat like a burst piñata. Despite the tears clouding my vision, it was impossible to ignore the flashing letters—DELANEY FRASER—vibrating from within a sea of tampons, makeup tubes, and spare change.

Unable to check the impulse, I reached for it, taking a second to wipe at my wet eyes before swiping my thumb across the screen. “Hi, Delaney.”

It sounded like a frog had crawled into my throat. If I was lucky, Delaney would be too polite to mention it.

“Piper, are you sick?”

Of course I wasn’t lucky. I’d never been before, why should today be any different?

But despite the cocoon of self-pity I wanted to wrap myself in, I couldn’t miss the genuine concern bleeding from Delaney’s voice.

Not that I deserved it.

Delaney and I had known each other since nursery school back in Bronxville, the suburb of New York City where we’d both grown up. From throwing sand in her face rather than sharing my pail and shovel, to snubbing her in favor of the mean girls clique in high school, I’d done nothing to deserve Delaney’s concern, or her friendship.

The truth was, Delaney’s niceness had always scared me. I had secrets to keep, even back then. Especially back then. I couldn’t afford to let my guard down for a minute. And being friends with a girl like Delaney—someone who cared about more than just the labels sewn inside her clothes or her boyfriend of the month—terrified me.

Crazily enough, Delaney Fraser was now my closest friend. My only friend, actually. As a public relations assistant for one of the hottest talent managers in Hollywood, I had yet to master work-life balance. But with Delaney clear across the country finishing up her degree at NYU, my overscheduled calendar wasn’t an issue for us.

Forcing a huge, fake smile on my face even though she couldn’t see me, I automatically shifted into my default mode: Fake It Till You Make It. Maybe that was why I’d been so drawn to Tinseltown. Here, whether you had your SAG card or not, everyone was an actor. “Nope. I’m great. How are you?”

There was a pause. “Piper, you don’t sound great.”

Delaney was no one’s fool, and she’d picked up on the truth. A truth I wasn’t ready to admit yet. It was too new, the wound too raw. “Of course I am,” I insisted, even though it was obvious I was one step away from falling apart. “And I’m going to be late for work, so…”

“Wait.”

My finger hovered over the END CALL button on my screen. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t hang up on Delaney.

“I was calling to tell you that I just booked a flight to LAX. I want to surprise Shane at his show tomorrow.”

The knot in my stomach drew tighter; the warm, stuffy air inside the car choking me. If Delaney was coming to Nothing but Trouble’s show tomorrow, I would need to book a car service from the airport to the venue, get her an all-access backstage pass, a hotel room—no, she would be staying with Shane, of course…

Details. My mind latched on to the expanding to-do list in my mind, anything to avoid thinking about what I’d just seen or a certain member of the band I’d have to avoid tomorrow. “What time are you getting in? Do you have an outfit to wear? I’ll arrange for hair and makeup—”

“Piper.” She cut me off with a laugh. “You don’t have to fuss over me anymore.”

That wasn’t exactly true. Her relationship with Shane Hawthorne was no longer a press stunt, but as long as Shane and his multi-platinum band, Nothing but Trouble, were my boss’s biggest clients, part of my job still involved fussing over Delaney.

“And how exactly would I explain leaving you to fend off the horde of paparazzi that stake out LAX to my boss?” Although Delaney wasn’t a celebrity herself, after the media circus surrounding Shane had gotten ahold of her, her face was nearly as recognizable—and profitable—as her rock star boyfriend’s. “Believe me,” I continued, “fussing over you is a hell of a lot easier that trying to placate Travis Taggert.”

“I don’t know how you put up with that man,” she conceded.

Right now, I was pretty sure all men were the scum of the earth, but as far as bosses went, Travis wasn’t bad. And it was because of him that Delaney and I had reconnected.

When Travis had been faced with the unenviable task of informing an A-list actor that his director had hired a body double for his upcoming sex scene because his ass wasn’t as finely sculpted as it had been a decade ago, Travis and I decided to strategize, or maybe just procrastinate, over drinks.

Delaney had been our waitress.

Neither Delaney nor I realized it at the time, but Travis had taken one look at her and instantly known she would be perfect for Shane.

As always, Travis’s instincts had been spot on. Once Shane and Delaney became an item, I was assigned to manage her introduction to Shane’s possessive fans. At the time, it had been a huge promotion, but because of our prior relationship, Travis wanted me on board.

The moment Delaney moved to New York for school, I’d asked to be taken off the Nothing but Trouble account.

Rock stars were not my thing.

Not anymore.

“He’s my boss, so it kind of comes with the territory. When are you getting in?” I might not be assigned to the band anymore, but I still pitched in where Delaney was concerned. We spent the next few minutes going over her travel itinerary, and after we hung up I jotted down notes in the planner I kept with me at all times.

The knock on my window made me jump, my pen streaking across the page. I’d forgotten that I was still sitting in the parking lot right outside my building.

Adam was standing there, looking regretful and apologetic, and irritatingly pulled together. Had he taken the time to shower after I ran out his door?

I didn’t even bother rolling down the window. I had nothing to say to my boyfriend.

Correction: ex-boyfriend, as of twenty minutes ago.

Starting the ignition with a shaking hand, I backed out of my parking spot, not caring if I ran over Adam’s toes. Not caring if I ran over any part of Adam’s anatomy, although there was one in particular I would have preferred.

Delaney might have found her Prince Charming, but so far I was more of a frog magnet.

I should buy stock in Trojans.

The random thought skittered across my brain as I flushed the condom down the toilet, my gut twisting as I watched it shudder and swirl before finally disappearing. I know flushing latex is bad for the plumbing and the environment, but when the condom is filled with my sperm—I can’t go leaving that shit around.

Over the years I’d dealt with more baby-daddy scandals than I cared to think about. None of them had turned out to be valid, and I intended to keep it that way.

Forever.

Not only was I the drummer of Nothing but Trouble, the most successful band of the decade—according to the tweet that just vibrated through my phone—I was also…

Wait for it…

The Most Fuckable Rock Star on the Planet.

Apparently, I’m a legend.

Am I surprised? Fuck, no.

It’s a reputation I’ve earned behind my drum kit and behind closed doors. In dark corners of dingy bars and in full view of anyone with eyes. I am nothing if not generous with my skills. Spreading the wealth and all that.

But when it came to my sperm, I knew better than to leave it unattended.

Ridiculous, really. I mean, chicks weren’t exactly lining up to bring me home to meet Mom and Dad. And I would hardly fit in at a PTA meeting—not with my tattoos and piercings and penchant for illegal substances washed down with hundred-proof liquor.

Turning on the tap, I splashed water on my face, pushing rough, drumstick-callused hands through my hair. I didn’t bother checking out my reflection in the mirror. I knew what I looked like, saw myself reflected in the hungry eyes of people wanting a piece of me every damn day.

I was desperate for a shower, but that would have to wait. I needed to rouse the girls in my bed and get them out first. Otherwise they were bound to wake up while I was scrubbing their scent from my skin and strip the hotel suite of everything I’d touched. Clothes, sheets, dirty glasses still sticky with the residue of whatever liquor I poured down my throat last night—given the opportunity, they’d all be up on eBay before I reached for a towel.

I’m living the dream.

Except that when I wasn’t onstage or in a recording studio pounding away at my custom built drum kit, it felt more like a nightmare.

When I was playing, my chaotic thoughts suddenly made sense. I could spot patterns. Arrangements of energy to be identified and interpreted, set to a unique rhythm.

From the relentless noise inside my mind, I made music.

But when I didn’t have a pair of drumsticks in my hand, I spent most of my time doing another kind of banging.

Hence, the two girls in my bed.

Because otherwise I’d be banging my head against the wall.

Maybe I should have checked into the hotel alone last night. Today, of all days, I wasn’t fit company for anyone.

One day out of three hundred and sixty-five. A day spent trying to forget about what I’d done, the lives I’d destroyed, the family I’d decimated.

My family.

Lost in an oblivion where yesterday never happened and tomorrow didn’t exist.

Unfortunately, I had a show tonight.

It was my own damn fault. If I’d paid more attention when Shane had thrown out potential dates for a concert benefitting the foundation he’d started in the name of a childhood friend, I could have vetoed this one.

Except, as usual, I’d been breezing through life, not sweating the details. Agreeing to everything. Caring about nothing.

Tonight’s show was important to Shane, so it was important to me. Even though we were playing a venue just an hour south of L.A., our tour coordinator always booked us into a nearby hotel for the night of the show. I’d checked in early. Wouldn’t be the first time I drank the day away in a hotel room. Played a perfect set even when I couldn’t walk a straight line.

But I couldn’t play if the guys couldn’t find me, and if I stayed in L.A. I was liable to make the rounds of the seediest bars I could find and pass out somewhere I shouldn’t be…and wake up, too late, with someone I didn’t know. I might be a fuck-up, but when it came to our band, I didn’t fuck around.

Sighing, I made my way into the bedroom. Time to get rid of the girls I’d brought with me. “All right.” I rapped on the headboard. “Time to get up, I’ve got sound check.”

The one with dark hair stirred slightly. Not enough. We’d just finished round three—no way could she be sleeping so soundly already.

I reached down to nudge her shoulder, and she countered by rolling over and trying to pull me back into bed. Normally I’d have let her. Hell, on any other morning, I’d have still been between them.

See? This day brings out the worst in me.

Instead, I wrapped my hands around her shoulders and tugged her upright. The sheet fell away from her body, exposing a pair of large breasts I loved last night but looked more like pointy flotation devices this morning.

Backing away, I stalked to the windows and yanked at the drapes. Sunlight flooded into the room, eliciting a pair of irate groans.

The blonde sat up. “C’mon, Landon, what’s your rush?” Her attempt at a seductive pout was hindered by the streaks of makeup crisscrossing her cheeks.

“Sorry, ladies.” I spread my hands out, gritting my teeth as I forced an easygoing attitude. “Gotta give the fans a good show tonight.”

“How about we give you a good show right now?” The brunette rose onto her knees, turning to her friend, one hand plowing through the blonde’s sex mussed mane, the other hand cupping her breast. She lowered her mouth, giving her lips a lick as she glanced my way. “You know you want to.”

An all-too-familiar blend of lust and loathing curdled within my gut, and I rubbed a palm over my face to keep my expression neutral. Watching two gorgeous women go at it, knowing I could join in the party at any moment was tempting, despite being a frequent opportunity. But not today.

Somehow I managed to lure them out of bed and into their clothes, although not without calling our show coordinator to come to the room with two tickets and backstage passes for tonight. Lynne didn’t even bat an eye at the request, or the pouting women I shoved at her. She was used to it.

Once I was finally alone, I sagged back against the door, thumping my head against it once, twice, three times.

Growing up in a working-class neighborhood at the edge of the Mojave Desert, no one would have laid odds that I’d become famous. Infamous, maybe. Notorious, probably.

But successful? Never.

Not that I could blame them. I sure hadn’t believed it myself.

I didn’t come into my own—if that ridiculous expression made any sense—until I arrived in Los Angeles and connected with Shane Hawthorne. We’d both had a lot to prove, although I didn’t realize that he needed to succeed as badly as I did until recently.

At the time, we’d just been finding our footing, connecting with other musicians, playing in shitty venues for nothing but beer and blow jobs from groupies who would happily take care of our equipment.

There had been one person who believed in me though.

At least, until I fucked her over, too.

A blonde-haired, blue-eyed, sharp-tongued temptress—who should have been too smart to fall for me. That beautiful face of hers always buried in a book, studying her ass off at UCLA. Focused on her goals, her résumé, her fucking five-year plan. I should have left her alone and walked away, contented myself with women who told me exactly what I wanted to hear. Preferably garbled moans around my cock. But I was stupid, and selfish. So fucking selfish.

I made it my mission to woo the college freshman—pursuing her as fiercely as my music career. Giving her my heart with one breath and promising the moon with the next.

Until the day I had to make a choice.

My girl or my career.

I chose music. Fame and fortune. Hollywood Hills and chemically induced thrills.

Of course, I’d spent every day since then trying to convince myself I didn’t regret it.

Want to know the difference between a legend and a fairy tale?

Only one of them ends happily ever after.

Chapter Two

I spent the entire day praying for storms over the Midwest, or a glitch that would ground all cross-country flights. A mild case of food poisoning, perhaps, or a sudden head cold that prevented Delaney from flying. Anything to keep her in New York.

Anything to keep me from tonight’s Nothing but Trouble concert.

By the time I faced the truth, that Delaney’s flight had taken off—with her—I’d waited so long to book a ride that the company we normally used had no openings. And neither did any of the others I’d used in the past.

It was awards season in Los Angeles. I should have known.

If I drove my own car, it would mean subjecting Delaney to the mercy of the paparazzi while we spent twenty minutes walking from security to the parking lot.

Which was why, when the only livery service with an available vehicle arrived, it wasn’t a basic black Lincoln. Or basic black at all. No, my ride was a silver stretch monstrosity, complete with a driver wearing a cheap tux who waved at me from across the street because he’d been afraid to navigate the tight turn into the parking lot of my apartment complex.

Beggars can’t be choosers.

After I slid into the back of the pimped-out limo—literally, since I nearly skated right off the slippery pleather seats—I checked my phone again. And cursed. Not because Delaney’s flight was late. Nope, it was early.

Of course it was.

Because even my most fervent hopes were ineffective.

You know what is effective?

Tequila.

I spotted the bottle tucked behind half a dozen others crowded into a built-in bar just as we pulled into LAX’s arrival lane.

I’d never been one to enjoy drinking alone, although I was temped now. Somehow I dredged up enough willpower to leave the bottle untouched and head inside the terminal.

Once I had Delaney in the car with me, however, all bets were off. If she passed out on the bench seat, she couldn’t exactly drag me into the arena, could she?

I am a terrible, terrible friend.

Even with the ball cap pulled low over her dark hair, Delaney was easy to spot. I shook my head at her outfit—head-to-toe lululemon and bright pink sneakers. “You’ve gone to the dark side, haven’t you?”

Delaney stopped in front of me with her Tumi carry-on, pulling the zipper on her jacket to reveal a SoulCycle T-shirt. “Guilty as charged.”

I groaned, throwing my arm around her shoulders. I tried to convert Delaney into a fellow yogi, but she’d never taken to it. Figures that she would go back east and become a SoulCycler. My butt hurt just thinking about it.

The only good thing about her outfit and our decidedly tacky ride was that we passed by the gang of photographers without even a whiff of suspicion.

“Please tell me there is something appropriate for tonight in your bag,” I pleaded, suddenly realizing I’d shown up empty-handed. Had I been thinking straight, I would have brought dresses, shoes, and a full makeup bag.

Clearly, I was off my game. I’d been so distracted today, my professional mind-set had fallen by the wayside.

“Of course. Several actually, I’ll let you pick.”

I sighed in relief just as Delaney pulled up short, her eyes going wide as she took in the sight of our obnoxious limousine complete with coordinating driver. “Are we going to a concert or prom?”

I laughed it off. “Oh please, you wouldn’t have been caught dead at prom.”

“Kind of hard to go when no one asks you.” Delaney spoke softly, but the flash of pain in her aquamarine eyes had me leaning against the door for support. Delaney and I weren’t friends in high school, and I definitely hadn’t gone out of my way to be nice to her. Back then, I’d been so concerned with maintaining my facade of “perfect daughter and popular cheerleader” I’d avoided anyone who didn’t reinforce the image I was determined to project.

But I had heard what people called me behind my back.

Perfect Piper.

They needn’t have whispered. I loved it. Hoped that if people said it often enough, it might actually come true.

I’m sorry, Delaney. The words were at the tip of my tongue, but what came out instead was, “And look at you now, you’re Shane Hawthorne’s girlfriend.”

Caught somewhere between an apology and a compliment, my response lacked the benefits of either, falling flat on the dirty pavement at our feet.

I ducked into the back of the car and reached for the bottle I’d spotted earlier, brandishing it like a peace offering as Delaney crawled in after me. “Tequila?” Without waiting for an answer, I poured two shots and handed one to Delaney.

She frowned. “No limes?”

“No, unfortunately. I didn’t plan ahead for this.” Tossing my head back, I drained the glass with barely a wince, then looked expectantly at Delaney.

She was staring at hers, lips pursed, nose wrinkled. “I can’t.”

“Of course you can,” I urged. “Open your mouth and swallow. It’s easy.” Grabbing the bottle, I poured another shot and downed it quickly.

Delaney looked at me strangely. “No. I mean, I’d rather not show up to the concert smelling like I’ve come from a Cinco de Mayo fiesta.”

For a second I was confused, and then I remembered. I’m worse than a bad friend, I’m an idiot. Shane had given up hard alcohol years ago. Of course she wouldn’t want to kiss him with tequila on her breath. “Crap, Delaney. I’m sorry.” I took the shot glass she was holding, my head already buzzing.

Except there wasn’t anywhere to put it, and I didn’t want to open the window just as we were merging onto the highway. Lifting my shoulders in an awkward shrug, I swallowed it down, my stomach heaving in protest.

Delaney took the empty glass from my hand and slid it into its allotted space in the bar. “Are you okay, Piper?”

Her bewildered expression acted like a mirror, reflecting my odd behavior. “I am,” I lied. “It’s just been a long day.” For a second I was tempted to blurt out what I’d walked in on yesterday morning, or reveal the reason behind my reluctance to attend tonight’s concert.

But that would have been a mistake.

If I was going to get through tonight without shattering into a million pieces, I couldn’t talk about either one.

I’d come to L.A., hoping things would be different here. That there would be less “faking it” and more “making it.”

That hadn’t happened. I still wasn’t enough.

Shitty friend. Underwhelming girlfriend.

The least I could do was be a decent stylist. I jerked my chin at the small suitcase Delaney had refused to let the driver put in the trunk. “Let’s figure out what you’re going to wear, because I’m not letting you out of the car in that.” I gestured at her workout gear, attempting a teasing smile.

By the time we pulled up to the arena, Delaney’s spandex and sneakers had been replaced by a significantly sexier ensemble.

And my tequila buzz had been completely eradicated by a droning, unsettling agitation.

Pulling two all-access passes from my purse, I handed one to Delaney with a last, longing glance at the bottle she’d taken from me.

I really could have used another dose of liquid courage, but there was no time. The door was pulled open and Delaney practically bounced through it, a huge grin on her face. My own exit was significantly less enthusiastic.

Flashing the laminated cards hanging from our necks at each security-staffed checkpoint, we made our way through the bowels of the building. The venue was crawling with people. Roadies, security, groupies, vendors, dealers, fans. Successful bands were like truffles—worth their weight in gold but smothered in sludge.

With each step, the music became louder, the rhythmic base vibrating forcefully through the soles of our feet.

Being under the same roof as Landon Cox filled me with a bizarre mix of exhilaration, dread, and absolute terror.

And the idea of actually setting eyes on him had every cell in my body screaming: abort, abort!

I tried to hang back as we neared the edge of the stage, but Delaney grabbed my hand and pulled me beside her. We’d arrived just in time for an explosion of fireworks, the kind that could be set off inside a packed arena. Streaks of color—neon blue and blazing white, vibrant green and blinding red—raced overhead like choreographed comets.

My heart slammed against my chest as I caught sight of Landon’s blond head and shirtless torso rising above his drum kit, a plume of fog billowing around him. My breath caught in my throat, holding precious oxygen captive and rendering my brain cells useless.

Landon never played wearing a shirt, and tonight was no different. Most of his body was obscured by equipment, but one glance at his torso and arms and you knew the man was jacked. Every inch of him.

No man had a right to look that good.

Luckily, the fog and lights prevented me from getting a clear view of Landon’s face. I didn’t think I could have handled it.

Despite working closely with Delaney over the past year, I’d always had an excuse at the ready when it came to being around the band. The few times my presence had been required, I’d kept a low profile, taking care to stay in the background, as far from the guys as possible. At least, from one guy in particular—Landon.

It hadn’t even been that hard. My job was public relations—I spent most of my time cultivating relationships with the media and trying to spin bad press into good. Between Shane and Delaney, there had been an explosion of bad press to work with. The roller-coaster ride they’d dragged us all on last year barely left me enough time to breathe, let alone stand still long enough to attract Landon’s attention.

Besides, the man usually had a circle of groupies ar. . .