Rock Star's Heart

Book 1: Smidge

by Kella Campbell

Genres: Contemporary Romance; New Adult Romance; Romance; fake relationship; rock stars; virgin heroine; addiction

Synopsis

“A pierced lip that I ache to kiss, a guitar god's hands that leave stardust on me when we touch.”

When a twist of fate throws college student Crystal Murphy into an unexpected job on tour with a wildly successful rock band, her crush on the guitarist turns into powerful temptation.

But there's a dark side to the glamour and champagne: Blade has anger and addiction issues, a history of partying with groupies, and a tendency to get naked in public — and Crys is supposed to keep him out of trouble.

As she gets to know the talented and lonely man behind the bad boy behavior, the chemistry between them wavers on the edge of something deeper. But he doesn't do relationships, and she grew up expecting a white-picket-fence future.

Can he reform and open his heart to love? Will she give up her straitlaced upbringing for her troubled rock star?

If you like sexy rock stars, fake relationships, and strong band friendships, you'll love this tender and steamy rock romance, so don't wait — get it now and read all night!

♥     ♥     ♥     ♥     ♥

Fall in love with the rock stars of Smidge...  Rock Star's Heart is the first book in this series of interconnected standalone novels following each band member as they find their happily-ever-afters.

Release date: February 28, 2018

Publisher: Tied Star Books

Print pages: 306

Content advisory: Medium-heat romance (some open-door sex scenes with moderate description). Some of the characters swear, and there are scenes relating to drug addiction.

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

Crys sat in the semi-dark of the arena, up in the nosebleeds with a couple of girlfriends, clutching the arms of her seat. She hadn’t expected to feel vertigo, but she’d never been so high up in an arena of this size; the steep elevation of the seats and the distance to the stage below were having a funny effect on her. With white knuckles, she told herself that she would not, could not possibly tip out of her seat and freefall down the endless rows, off the balcony and down to the stage.

All around, people rustled into their seats, juggling plastic drink cups and neon glow sticks, squirming into brand new Smidge tour t-shirts or moaning over the photographs in their glossy souvenir programs.

“Oooh, look, Crys, Debbie, look at this one of Angel!” Leah’s words almost came out on a squeal as she thrust her program toward them and jabbed a finger at one of the pictures. Soaking wet and with shirt ripped half off, the lead singer appeared to be in the process of unbuttoning his jeans, with a devilish smirk on his handsome face. Water droplets glimmered in his bleached-platinum crew cut and along high cheekbones — narrowed green eyes held an invitation.

Debbie leaned across Crys to have a look. “Pfft! So fake.” She craned her neck for a better view of the suggestive pose and the vocalist’s semi-revealed muscular chest.

Crys looked too. “I like this one of Blade best,” she said, pointing to another picture which featured Smidge’s guitarist, dark in shadow and leather, pinpoint light glinting on his lip and eyebrow piercings as he cradled his guitar with a hint of bitter tenderness.

Leah laughed. “You’ve got creepy taste, Crys — Blade’s too hardcore for me. Angel’s the hottest for sure, but some of these pictures of Dice are kind of yummy too.” Dice’s poses weren’t quite as openly sexual as the others — the drummer was the youngest of the Smidge boys, a cute kid-brother joker with an appealing half-innocent grin.

“Okay, so maybe Angel technically has the best cheekbones and abs, but that doesn’t make him the sexiest or the best date.” Debbie turned her program to a shot of the bass player, a fallen seraph, all golden curls and the bluest eyes. “I’d go for Easy in a heartbeat, if I had the chance,” she said, with a hint of a blush. Crys’s eyes met Leah’s, and their lips twitched — Debbie was a dead sucker for any nice-guy-gone-bad, and it never ended well.

“Honey, can we get by?” asked an athletic man with spiky hot-pink hair, touching Leah on the shoulder to get her attention. His two friends crowded behind him, shoving good-naturedly and balancing plastic cups of beer. All three wore t-shirts with the acid-green logo of the opening band, and sported gelled-up hair and facial piercings. They fit in with the crowd, much more so than the girls did. “Our seats are next to yours, I think,” he added. “I’m Johnny, and these are Rhys and Adam.”

“Leah, and my friends are Debbie and Crys,” she said, hopping up to let them squeeze by, maybe squeezing a little closer than absolutely necessary. Her hair snagged on a button of Adam’s denim jacket, and he laughed, untangling her as he wedged past. Adam had young-Lenny-Kravitz dreads and an attractive smile. “You girls want something to drink?” he asked, with a diffident shrug to show that it didn’t much matter either way. “No strings — just drinks, you know?”

Leah glanced at Crys and Debbie. After almost four years of university, they were used to having at least some tenuous connection with guys they met — a shared class, a mutual acquaintance, familiar territory — and these were completely unknown quantities, with nothing in common but concert tickets in the same row. Attractive, though… Leah’s eyes begged her friends to agree, to keep the conversation going.

“Well, I’d love a beer,” said Debbie, prodding Crys with an elbow to say yes as well.

Although her mother wouldn’t have approved, and she wasn’t sure she felt comfortable taking drinks from strangers, Crys nodded. “Sure, please.” She liked the look of these men, with their gelled hair and piercings — easy enough to imagine them in rock star makeup, a bit of eyeliner and sparkle, like the Smidge boys in their beefcake photos.

Leah giggled, her cheeks pink under her freckles. “You won’t be able to carry all that, Adam; I’d better come down with you.”

Adam shot his friends a look that plainly said four cups was hardly a challenge, but he wasn’t going to turn down a pretty girl’s company. “You bet,” he agreed, with another wide smile, gesturing for her to precede him along the row of seats toward the aisle.

Crys and Debbie stood and squeezed back against their seats, as Johnny and Rhys pushed past, checking them over with interested eyes. Crys looked downward to avoid their assessment — and the vertigo hit her again as she took in the drop to the stage. With an inadvertent moan of distress, she sank back into her seat, groping for the armrests.

Rhys turned toward her, concerned. “Hey. You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Crys said, shaking her head, though she could feel the blush rushing to her cheeks. “It’s stupid. I’ve never been so high up in an arena before. I get… kind of dizzy when I look down.” She gazed at her feet, eyes fixed on her shoes, hair falling forward as though she could hide behind it.

“It’s not stupid,” Rhys assured her. “They call these the nosebleeds for a reason, but it’s ridiculously expensive to sit further down. We couldn’t afford better seats either.”

“Shut up,” said Johnny. “None of anyone’s business what we can or can’t afford.”

Rhys just laughed. “Come on, Johnny, who’d be sitting up here if they could be down there?”

“That’s true enough,” Debbie agreed. “Still, I guess they can charge whatever people are willing to pay. It’s unreal how popular Smidge has become — did you guys see them on their first tour here?”

“Nah,” said Johnny. “Didn’t know much about them then. I mean, I heard ‘Skanky Treat’ on the radio, of course — who didn’t? But it was impossible to get tickets, and then they didn’t even come here on their second big tour. Anyway, I didn’t really get into Smidge until My Tainted Baby was released.”

“I’ve liked Smidge from the beginning, but I couldn’t get tickets to the Skanky Treat tour either. Nobody could.” Rhys shook his head. “Their stuff has gotten more and more commercial, though. It’s a shame. Even Human Lollipop had more original material on it than they’re doing now.”

Debbie squeaked an indignant protest at that. “But they’re on the radio and TV all the time, and selling out every arena on their tour! They’re bigger than… anything!” She held up the glossy souvenir program in illustration.

Rhys and Johnny both laughed. “That’s kind of my point,” Rhys said, “but… I’m here, aren’t I?”

Crys only smiled. Men always pretended to know so much about music, were so quick to fling around words like ‘commercial’ and ‘generic’. Surely it was all subjective in the end — you either connected to it or you didn’t — mostly a matter of taste. And, as Rhys had said, they were here.

On the stage below, the opening band had started, to general disregard from the crowd waiting for Smidge. The seats filled up, and excitement built as a murmur circulated throughout the arena that the Smidge boys had arrived in the building. Leah and Adam returned with the promised beer, and when they shuffled down the row and Crys and Debbie stood to let Adam by, Leah gestured to her friends to move one seat along, saying to Adam, “Why don’t you sit with me? The girls can move down.”

“Sure,” Adam agreed easily. So Crys shrugged and moved down. Then Johnny told Rhys to swap with Debbie, and Crys found herself next to Rhys, while Johnny chatted up Debbie down the row.

As the fog machine began to fill the arena with rolling clouds of powder-scented white mist, and the spotlights focused down on the stage, Crys’s feeling of vertigo subsided. Maybe it was the fog, filling up the space that had threatened to overwhelm her, or maybe she’d become acclimated to the height and vastness of the arena. Or maybe it was the man sitting beside her who put such trivial considerations out of her mind. She glanced over at him, Rhys, who had reacted so considerately to her distress, who spoke with a gentleness that seemed unconnected to the tough look of his piercings and spiked hair. As she observed him, he turned his head and met her eyes.

“You have a lot of piercings,” she blurted out.

Rhys smiled, touching the ring in one nostril ruefully. “Most of these are fake,” he admitted with a laugh. “Clip-ons and magnets. I’m an actor, so I know how to… look the part, you know? A couple of the ones in my ears are real, but that’s it.”

Crys laughed too. “Wow! I’d love to be able to, well, look the part like that too,” she said. “I suppose I’ll always look like the good little girl I am, though. I don’t know how to seem tough; I always feel like an underage schoolgirl at concerts and bars. So pathetic!” And worse, to babble on like that about it, she thought, but something about Rhys invited confidences.

“My friend Amy has the same problem — a young and innocent face.” Rhys looked at her with professional consideration. “As an actor, it’s a career advantage for her, and she gets lots of work because of it, but she also gets typecast. Going out, though… okay, she plays it up, makes it work for her. Knee-high socks, you know, short schoolgirl skirts and pigtails and a lollipop — she gets tons of attention!”

Picturing herself in a pleated plaid miniskirt, Crys wondered whether maybe her babydoll face was less of a liability than she’d thought. Her mother always said that a nice cashmere sweater and good jewelry would give her some sophistication, but embracing the innocent look sounded like a lot more fun.

Rhys must have noticed her brightening at the notion, as he took on a serious expression and added, “Of course, Amy isn’t young or innocent, so she can handle it. Don’t… er… get yourself into a situation based on what I’ve said. I probably shouldn’t have suggested it.”

“I won’t try it, really,” Crys agreed, “but it’s a lovely idea.” And Rhys was a lovely gentleman, she thought, someone who took her frustration seriously but also worried about what might happen to her if she did tart up and go out like jailbait. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if he asked for her number, if he wanted to see her again? On her right, Leah chattered away at top volume while Adam nodded in agreement, and on the other side of Rhys, Johnny leaned close to Debbie, his mouth close to her ear, saying something that made her laugh.

The opening act finished playing, and with a blast of electronic thunder, the entire arena was plunged into pitch darkness. A voice seemed to roar from everywhere at once: “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome… SMIDGE!”

The stage exploded into a mass of light and dazzle. Pyrotechnics blasted and strobes flashed, lasers whirled. Slowly rising into the spotlights from trapdoors in the stage came the Smidge boys, Jumbotron screens lighting to show their ascent in close-up. Rock gods they were, made up in glitter and flash, hair sprayed stiff with blue and silver stuff, glorious in artfully ripped dark denim, studded leather, black mesh, rhinestones and LED lights.

Angel, of the satanically elegant face, actually wore a pair of white-feathered wings as he rose to the stage — Leah reached across Adam’s lap to squeeze Crys’s hand in excitement. The thundering sound effects were much too loud for conversation, but the hand-squeeze told Crys that Leah found the wings effective. Reaching the stage, Angel picked up his guitar and strode forward to the stand that held his mic, raising one arm in a salute to the crowd. Behind him, Dice in a jester’s cap jumped up onto the drum riser and lifted his drumsticks with an impish grin, and Leah squeezed Crys’s hand again. Then Easy, with his blue-and-silver-streaked fair hair glowing like a halo in the spotlights, took his bass from its stand and held it aloft in greeting to the crowd like the lover-boy he was, basking in the shrieks of response as he stepped up to flank Angel. Blade, though, paid little attention to the screaming fans as he collected his guitar — he seemed focused inward as he lifted up the instrument and settled it into position, adjusting the strap. All in black, he wore a spike-studded dog collar around his neck and leather cuffs around his wrists; a sleeveless vest showed off the ink on his arms. He moved into position, and magnified on the jumbotron screens he gave a sharp nod to Angel — saying without words, I’m ready, let’s do this thing.

Music filled the arena, drums like gunfire, heavy bass and power guitar, a rock anthem that had most of the audience up on their feet. As Angel gripped his mic close and began to pour his passionate words into it, a raw moaning noise swept around the arena, thousands of delighted voices responding to him in appreciation.

Rock gods weren’t for falling in love with, Crys knew; they were for daydreams and fantasy, for wishful thinking in between boyfriends. But as she gazed down at the stage, irresistibly drawn to the Smidge boys in their stage makeup and punk hair — especially Blade with the metal in his face — she wondered if she’d ever find a regular guy to date who attracted her in that way.

Next to Crys, Rhys sat watching the concert, absorbed in the music. As an actor, he looked the part because he’d chosen to do so for the night. Presumably, he could also look the part of a nice, appropriate, sane-and-normal boyfriend if he wanted to. Not that he’d said anything about wanting to see her again. Crys wondered if, in some imaginary perfect world, he could be convinced to wear his fake piercings for her — if, and she felt a bit hot in the concert darkness at the thought, he would wear them to make love to her. Rhys the actor must be well used to stage makeup, too; it wasn’t such a stretch to think of him with a bit of eyeliner darkening around his eyes… would he do that too, for her, if she asked him?

“God, I’m such a fool,” she muttered to herself, her words eaten up by the concert sound all around. How could she be thinking these thoughts about someone she’d just met?

On the stage below, Smidge segued into a power-ballad duet — Angel singing the part of a relationship-bound man longing for sexual freedom, with Blade taking up a second microphone to sing the contrasting part, the promiscuous adventurer longing for love. “For every night when the bedsheets burned / For every night when thunder rolled / I’ve longed to find a princess / One love to have and to hold,” Blade sang, his raspy deep voice a counterpoint to Angel’s more melodic one.

Rhys hadn’t given any sort of clue as to how forward he was in that direction.

A fragrant skunk-ish smoke drifted over them. Crys glanced around to see if she could see where it was coming from; more particularly, she was curious to know whether the three guys they’d met were responsible for the smoke. Rhys noticed her curious eyes — he laughed. “None of us do it,” he said into her ear. “I used to, but I’ve given it up. So has Adam. And Johnny never did.”

“I’m such a child, sorry,” said Crys. She had to speak up for him to hear her, but with the loud ambient sound it had the effect of a whisper.

“Don’t be sorry. You’re curious. You don’t know us. It’s natural.” Rhys reached over and took her hand. “Let’s enjoy the concert, huh?” As the band on the stage far below shifted into one of their fast-paced club hits, he squeezed her fingers and didn’t let go.

♥

When the lights finally came up at the end of the concert, after the last of the fog from the machines and the smoke from the pyrotechnics had faded, Crys had the strange feeling of emerging from a dream, ears ringing and aching from the barrage of sound. While the others put on their coats and gathered up programs and purses, she looked down at the bare distant stage — the vertigo long gone — where workers unplugged and carried away instruments, packed equipment into large black cases, swept up glitter and assorted debris. Had Smidge even really been there? The dream-world of laser lights and silver confetti, spotlights and swirling fog, had disappeared under the bright arena floodlights, and all over the building the chattering crowd swarmed outward, while the black boards of the stage stood abandoned.

“Come on, space cadet! It’s time to go!” Leah said, gently prodding Crys’s shoulder. “Don’t forget your coat.”

But before she could bend to get it, Rhys had scooped it up and was holding it out for her to slip her arms in. She turned to thank him, and he smiled. Then they were filing out, an inch at a time, stuck in a human traffic jam as the sold-out arena emptied itself of occupants. Leah and Adam made their way along the row of seats and into the aisle to start the trek down the stairs, and people from other rows wedged themselves into the gap before Crys and Rhys could catch up. Debbie and Johnny had been right behind them, but again, the sheer press of numbers had created separation, and in the midst of all the people Crys was alone with Rhys for the first time.

“I don’t like to do this,” he said, with the first bit of hesitation he’d shown, “but your girlfriends should know that Adam and Johnny aren’t exactly… standard date candidates.”

“Oh?”

“Mm-hmm. Adam’s in what you might call a complicated relationship, and Johnny — well, Johnny’s bisexual and prefers open relationships, and most girls get kind of intense about that when they find out.”

Crys took a quick look back in startled curiosity, but didn’t immediately see Johnny, though his hot-pink hair should have made him visible, even among all the people on the stairs. And Rhys hadn’t said anything of himself. “What about you?” she asked. “Are you a complicated date too?”

“Well, I’m an actor,” he said, with a wry smile. “But if that doesn’t scare you off, I’d like to get your phone number.”

Crys wrote her number on the back of his ticket stub. “There you go.”

“Crystal Murphy. That’s a pretty name,” Rhys said, looking at the ticket stub.

“What’s your last name, then?”

“Davies.”

“Davies. I like that,” said Crys. He couldn’t possibly know that she was trying herself out as Mrs. Davies in her head, could he? “I really do hope you call me,” she added.

“I will call you, Crystal Murphy,” said Rhys Davies, “believe me, I will.”

At the bottom of the steps, they found Adam and Leah, and waited for Johnny and Debbie. When the pair turned up, Crys couldn’t help eyeing Johnny in semi-shocked fascination. She couldn’t put what Rhys had said out of her mind. Had Johnny made love to both men and women? Did he have them both at the same time, or one at a time? Debbie, who was deeply into exclusivity and promise rings and relationship status conversations, wouldn’t be able to cope with an alternative arrangement. Then Crys had to wonder how she herself would handle it. Not that she was even interested in Johnny. But a lover who had other lovers, who didn’t buy into the one-boy-one-girl-forever model of things… Could she be strong enough, open enough for that? And there was Rhys, watching her watch Johnny, with an odd half-smile on his face. Oh, good God, he knows I’m thinking about sex!

And then they were saying their goodnights in the main concourse of the arena, standing to one side of the herd of bodies flowing outward. “We could walk out together, help you flag a taxi?” Johnny offered, but Leah and Crys shook their heads, and though Debbie looked tempted to drop all caution and abandon her friends, Leah jabbed her in the ribs with an elbow until she agreed with a regretful moue.

“That’s kind of you, but we’re taking the train home,” Leah said, looking around for signs to direct them to the station connected to the arena. “So… I guess this is goodnight.”

Crys saw Adam kiss Leah on the cheek, but there was no promise in his body language. Debbie, on the other hand, had lost the lipstick off her lips on the journey down the stairs, and Johnny had a hand resting intimately on her lower back as he murmured something in her ear. Crys couldn’t meet Rhys’s eyes.

“Crys,” he said softly. She raised her eyes, and he was looking straight at her, telling her without words that he wanted to kiss her, asking without words whether she wanted a kiss goodnight. And because she didn’t know the answer to that, he didn’t press her. “Next time, then.” A promise.

♥

The queue for the women’s washroom was staggering. “Are you sure you have to go, Deb?” Leah asked. “We’ll be back at our place in less than twenty minutes. Or you could use the ladies’ in the station; it’s bound to be less crowded…”

“Absolutely not,” replied Debbie, wrinkling her nose. “Gotta go; you know what I’m like after drinking beer, there’s no way I can wait the whole way home. And I’m not going near the station washroom — disgusting.”

“You shouldn’t drink if you can’t hold your pee,” Leah muttered. “Fine, go and get in line, then. We’ll wait for you at the exit.” It was one of those washrooms with inflow and outflow doors, allowing the herd of women to file in at one end to use the toilet stalls, then move on to the rows of sinks, then out by the other door. Debbie, clearly too content with her night to be offended by Leah’s sourness, waved cheerily in agreement and scooted off to get in line before the wait grew any longer. Leah rolled her eyes at Crys. “Honestly, Debbie’s bladder is the size of a toddler’s!”

Crys raised her eyebrows — it wasn’t like Leah to be so negative. “What’s the matter, Leah?”

“If you have to know, Adam didn’t make any move to see me again. No phone number, no hint that we could connect online, nothing.”

“His loss.” Crys thought for a moment, and then decided that, as much as she disliked passing on hearsay, her friend deserved to know what Rhys had said. “Listen, it wasn’t you. Rhys told me that Adam is in a complicated relationship of some sort. I think he meant for me to let you know, so you wouldn’t feel bad — I mean, Adam obviously enjoyed your company, he just isn’t single.”

“That’s my usual rotten luck. Why do I always get the unavailable ones?” Leah cursed under her breath. “At least Debbie might get laid sometime soon. She clearly had a bit of a grope on the stairs, huh? I wonder if that Johnny asked for her number…”

Crys sighed. “As to that, you might as well know what Rhys said about Johnny, and I don’t think he was kidding; apparently Johnny, um… goes both ways, you know?”

“Eww, that’s nasty — Debbie would freak if she knew — and she let him kiss her, too!” Leah shook her head. “And she thought she’d catch something from the subway washroom!” The scandal in her voice was tinged with relish, and her expectant expression said she was waiting for Crys to agree, to validate the horror and deliciousness of it.

“I… don’t think we should, um, judge him like that. Sure, it’s… different, and Debbie won’t like it, but… he and his friends seem nice. I expect he, well, you know, practices safe sex and all that.”

Leah snorted in disgust. “Oh, come on, Miss Vanilla Virgin, don’t pretend like you’re not as squicked out by it as I am — or is this some churchy ‘love the sinner, hate the sin’ thing?”

“Wow, Leah. You know me better than that, don’t you? Try ‘his body, his choice,’ okay?”

They looked at each other, uncomfortably silent.

“Fine, whatever.” Leah crossed her arms and contemplated the remains of the crowd with a scowl. Crys shrugged outwardly at Leah’s grumpiness, but couldn’t help hearing the hurtful words over and over in her mind, wondering if her friends really thought of her as a churchy vanilla virgin. To pass the time, she too watched the shifting masses of people.

A man in a dark suit was moving through the crowd, with a clipboard and pen in hand and a security earpiece in his ear. He didn’t look like a member of the security team, though — those wore yellow jackets with silver reflective stripes and SECURITY in big letters across the back. This man seemed out of place among the concert-goers, an executive sort, and the suit looked expensive. He observed the crowd intently, occasionally checking his clipboard and speaking into what had to be a microphone clipped to his lapel. He had to be either looking for someone or watching for some sort of activity or behavior. His eyes connected with Crys’s, and his gaze sharpened. She looked away at once, trying to appear nonchalant, but she could feel her cheeks reddening at the thought of having been caught watching him — whatever his purpose was, she’d no call to stare at him like that.

Moments later, Debbie emerged from the washroom. “Come on, let’s go!” Crys said at once. “Do either of you know where we are in relation to the subway entrance?”

“Well, it’s by the northwest gate, and I think I saw a sign—” Debbie began.

“Debbie, you won’t believe what Crys told me about your new friend Johnny, you’ll be absolutely sick—” Leah interrupted.

“Excuse me,” said the man in the expensive suit and security earpiece, right there at their elbows, making them jump. “May I ask you ladies a few questions? It will only take a moment.”

He appeared to be conducting some sort of marketing survey — had they enjoyed the concert, had they purchased a souvenir program? Looking at the program, could they show him the photos they liked best? Which Smidge boy did each of them find most attractive? Were they speaking as single girls or did they have boyfriends? They answered the man’s questions and pointed at pictures, and just as they were beginning to eye each other with a touch of impatience, he smiled in a pleased but slightly calculating way and thanked them for their time and assistance.

“It was no trouble, we’re glad to have helped,” said Crys with a polite smile; Leah and Debbie nodded in agreement, eager to be on their way.

But the man reached into his jacket and extracted three laminated tags. “No, really, your answers are much appreciated. In return for that, let me do you a favor: you’d like to meet the Smidge boys, wouldn’t you?”

“You’ve got to be kidding!” Leah said.

The man shook his head. “Not at all, young lady; part of the promotional activities they’re contracted for includes meeting individual fans backstage after the concert. In this case we’re… using that access as appreciation for assistance with our survey.” The explanation rang slightly false, as though there had to be more to it, but the tags he handed them were actual backstage passes with serial numbers and holographic seals of authenticity, and he spoke into a microphone clipped to his lapel, summoning an assistant to escort them in.

The assistant appeared almost immediately, a tough-looking woman who looked like she could be in her late thirties — or maybe she was younger and lived and partied harder than most. She wore what might have been a power suit if it hadn’t been made of black leather, and a black satin shirt unbuttoned rather too far. Diamond studs gleamed in her ears.

“Marigold will take care of you,” said the man. “Thanks again.”

The leather-suited woman spoke into a two-way radio: “I’m bringing three more in for photo op and autographs, alert to one possible, authorized by Mr. Kinney.” A static hiss and an assenting response issued from the radio’s speaker. “Right this way; follow me. Please refrain from touching anything in the backstage space, and immediately obey any instructions given to you by the backstage public relations manager or any member of the crew for your own safety and comfort.” She recited the string of directives without pause or inflection; she must have given the same spiel hundreds of times. “You will have a brief opportunity to speak with the band members. They will sign your programs, if you’d like them to do so. We ask that you not take any personal photographs or recordings of any sort in the backstage space.” Her patronizing look suggested that, given the privilege of breathing the same air as the Smidge boys, no one would dare to find these arrangements less than satisfactory.

She marched along ahead of them at a brisk pace, exuding a strong aura of being much too busy and important to escort little girls around to meet the band.

Crys patted her hair anxiously, wishing she’d brought a hairbrush — why would she have brought a hairbrush to a concert? — and wondering if she might get a chance to touch up her lipstick. She saw Leah straightening her shirt, and Debbie undoing and then doing up the top buttons of her denim jacket.

In silence, the three of them savored tingles of anticipation as Marigold led them through a steel door and down a long concrete ramp, up a short flight of stairs and along a carpeted hallway, stopping at a door with a plaque that read “Lounge A.” Pinned to a corkboard below the plaque was a paper notice with the words “Guest Holding Lounge — No Admittance Without Passes.” Marigold spoke into her radio, and the door was opened from the inside.

“Hello, ladies, please come in and have a seat,” said a tall man in a Smidge Crew t-shirt and dark jeans, with a skull-patterned bandana covering his head. Freestanding banners with images of the Smidge boys in concert brightened up an otherwise bland room — a couple of basic beige sofas matched the industrial wallpaper. The crewman turned to Marigold. “Goldie, could you tell Kin that this has got to be it for tonight; the boys have had enough.” Marigold shot him a withering look, but he shrugged it off. “Hey, not my doing, I’m just passing the word along.”

“Whatever.”

“So, introduce me?” He inclined his head toward the girls.

“Leah, Debbie, and this one is Crys,” snapped Marigold, pointing them out. “Jed is the crewperson in charge of backstage public relations, so he’ll take care of you.” And she turned on her heel and walked out.

“Busy lady,” said Jed, with a look that suggested he didn’t think much of her. “Now, have some snacks, make yourselves comfortable, and I’ll need you to fill out these waivers before I take you in.” He handed them each a small clipboard. “Legal stuff, you know. Personal liability waiver, in case you slip and hit your head, and there’s also a photographic model release in there — I think Goldie told you that you can’t take personal photos?” The girls bobbed their heads. “Management doesn’t want random cameras popping off all over the place, so our photographer takes the pictures, and our guests get autographed prints in the mail. But we need you to sign a model release form so we can do that. Sound good to you?”

The girls sat there, gazing at the waiver forms in their hands, half reading the legalese and hardly taking it in as they thought about what Jed had said. Photos with Smidge after all, and something better than a blurry phone-camera shot.

Crys signed her waiver form, printing her address and phone number as instructed. When she handed it to Jed, he asked to see some ID, then peeled a barcode sticker from the back of her backstage pass and stuck it onto her waiver form, then stuck a fluorescent green star on the front of her pass. He repeated the process for Leah and Debbie, although they got orange stars instead of green. Jed’s assessing look as he handed back the passes gave Crys the idea that the green star was somehow significant.

Uncomfortably aware of her most-likely-rumpled hair and lack of lipstick, Crys finally cleared her throat and asked, “Is there a mirror I could use somewhere around here? I’d kind of like to fix myself up before…”

“Don’t worry about it. Sally will be — ah, you’ll… have a chance at a mirror before you go in.” Jed smiled, and gestured at the table. “Have some snacks, have something to drink.”

Crys obediently took a can of Dr Pepper from the ice bucket and cracked it open. The sweet liquid fizzed on her tongue and slipped down her throat, and she tried not to worry about what one should or should not say to famous people on meeting them. Leah reached for a diet Sprite, and clunked it against Crys’s Dr Pepper, saying, “Here’s to meeting the hottest band on the planet; let’s hope we have better luck than we did in the audience.”

“What do you mean, ‘better luck’?” Debbie asked. “I don’t know about you, but I had a great time, and what’s more, Johnny asked for my—”

“Well, crap,” said Leah. “We were about to tell you, when we got interrupted by that PR man.”

“For the love of God, now is not the time, seriously,” Crys interrupted. “We’re about to go and meet Smidge. Can we talk about this later?”

“But—”

“Let’s just leave it ‘til we get home,” Crys said. “Come on, girls, please — help me figure out what to say to the legends I’ve been daydreaming about for the past year, okay?”

“That’s right, we might actually have to say something to them.” Debbie let out a little gasp of excitement. “I still can’t believe we’re really going to meet Smidge.”

Leah grinned, widening her eyes and putting on a love-struck expression. “How about, ‘Hi, I’ve been fantasizing about you for the past year, you’re hot, can I have your autograph?’”

Jed, watching them, laughed. “You don’t need to worry, ladies,” he said. “You say hello, they’ll ask you if you enjoyed the concert and what your favorite song is, you answer them, then the photographer will arrange you for pictures. Afterward, they’ll tell you it was nice meeting you, and you’ll tell them it was an honor; that’s it. You don’t need to have a speech prepared or anything.” The girls laughed too — put like that, it sounded pretty straightforward.

And yet, remembering that she’d dreamed of Blade naked, dreamed of touching his bare skin, Crys didn’t see how it could be simple to come face to face with him.

The two-way radio on Jed’s desk bleeped and chattered, and he jumped up to open the door for a woman with slicked-down electric orange hair, whose Smidge Crew t-shirt stretched over an impressively stacked chest. She carried a square silver case, which she set down and opened to reveal neatly arranged trays of brushes and tubes and tins. “This is Sally,” said Jed. “She’s going to touch up your hair and makeup, and they’ll be ready for you in the lounge by the time she’s done.”

“I won’t need to do much, I shouldn’t think,” added Sally, with a calm smile that immediately put them at ease. “All three of you have lovely skin. A dab of powder and some highlighter should do it, okay?” She hooked a chair with one foot and dragged it over, positioning it in front of Crys before she sat. “You got a lipstick you want me to use, honey, or should I choose one of mine?” Sally’s efficient hands moved over Crys’s face, buffing, dusting, dabbing, and then she was done, and Crys sat looking into Sally’s hand mirror while Sally moved on to Leah. It didn’t look like makeup, what Sally had done — only a general impression of matte healthy skin and freshened lipstick. Crys passed the mirror along to Leah, and in no time at all, Debbie was inspecting herself in the mirror and Sally was packing up her kit.

“Thank you so much,” Crys said to Sally. “Do we, um, give you a tip or anything?”

“Not at all, honey, but you’re sweet to offer — and listen, just be yourself in there, okay? He likes natural girls, not too much makeup and flash, so you’ll do fine. Luck and love to you.” And with a wink and a wave, Sally was out the door with her case. He likes…? You’ll do fine…? What had Sally meant? Jed saw Crys’s puzzled face and gave her a thumbs-up sign, which puzzled her even more, just as a bleep sounded from his radio.

“On our way,” said Jed into the radio. “Okay, ladies, they’re ready for us. Follow me.” Out into the hall they went, down and around a corner to another door — Lounge B — with a security guard sitting at a table outside and a paper tacked to the door’s corkboard, reading: “Meet & Greet — passes MUST be scanned by Security prior to admittance — please leave ALL cameras & phones with Security before entering.”

The security guard nodded to Jed and solemnly scanned each girl’s pass before holding out a basket labelled “Cameras & Phones.” Crys fished her phone out of her purse and powered it down before dropping it into the basket without hesitation, but Debbie looked at hers reluctantly before parting with it. “You’ll get it back,” said the security guard with an expression of utmost patience. “Pardon me, you with the red hair, do you have a phone to turn in?”

“Nope. Lost it last week and I haven’t got another yet,” said Leah, holding her purse open to show its lack of contents. A lipstick tube, key ring, and change purse lay forlorn at the bottom of it, along with her driver’s license and debit card and a couple of crumpled-up receipts.

“Very well.” The security guard picked up his radio. He pressed a button, and someone on the other side of the door pushed it open.

CHAPTER TWO

Music reached out to draw them in, Angel’s voice growling and crooning through the lyrics to “My Tainted Baby” — drums pounded an infectious rhythm, and Jed waved the girls forward to precede him into the room. They paused on the threshold and glanced at each other, suddenly shy, and then Blade’s guitar solo moaned and soared out to them, as Jed took Crys by the arm and led her through the door.

The walls were obscured by black velvet backdrops, and black matting with a huge Smidge logo covered the floor. Bored-looking bodyguards stood in the corners, semi-alert, arms folded. Big speakers pulsed out the music. Photographic floods lit four black leather couches arranged in a square, with the Smidge boys lounging on them. Crys closed her open mouth, and tried to take in the reality of four such glamorously sexual men sitting there, pierced and tattooed and clad in leather and denim and mesh, waiting for her to say something.

“Hello?” She smiled tentatively, trying to neither gawk at the Smidge boys nor look down at her feet like a schoolgirl.

“This is Crystal Murphy, accompanied by Leah Tucker and Debbie Frangelli,” said Jed. Leah and Debbie crowded up beside Crys, all but drooling as they reacted to their first sight of the band at close quarters. “Ladies, I’m sure you recognize Angel, Easy, Blade and Dice?”

“Ooh, yes,” Leah agreed, almost wriggling with enthusiasm.

“Did you enjoy the concert, then?” asked Angel, his voice as rich and caressing in person as from the stage. It was surely a rote question, but he asked it with such a sinful smile that he had all three girls nodding and giggling like teenagers.

Easy looked up from his sprawling position on one of the couches. Seen close up, he looked a little less sweet and a lot more dangerous than he did on stage and in photographs. “So, which are your favorite songs, girls?” he asked them, with poorly masked ennui — fed up with public relations, and not bothering to hide it.

“‘My Tainted Baby,’ of course,” said Debbie at once.

“From this album, sure. But ‘Star Shot Down’ is my all-time fave,” Leah added, “it’s got a great rhythm and that drum solo, and I love the bit that gets all quiet and is just the vocals and then smash on the crash cymbal…”

“Cool, a girl who knows what she’s talking about,” said Dice. “How about you, ah, Crystal? Which song is your favorite?”

Crys felt her cheeks flushing at the attention. “You have so many great songs, but if I have to choose one, it’s ‘Love Bound’…” The duet, in which Blade sang of bedsheets burning. Blade, who sat before her now with a quizzical look in his eyes, silver rings in his lip and eyebrow and studs in his ears, a spiked leather dog-collar and black mesh top under his leather biker jacket, black jeans slashed across his long thighs.

“Are you already somebody’s princess, then, or are you looking for a sinner to turn saint?” His raspy deep voice melted her, and she bit her lip, unable to form an answer.

The photographer gave her an excuse to look away. “Hi, there. I’m Scott, pleasure to meet you.” A plain-featured man with a receding hairline, he stepped forward to greet them each with a firm handshake and practiced setting-at-ease smile. “Welcome to your Smidge photo moment. I’m aiming to get one good individual shot of each of you with the band member of your choice,” he said, “but I’ll be taking several frames each time to be sure of getting a good print, so bear with me. We’ll do a group shot last. Now, if I could ask you ladies to each pick your crush for the evening, we’ll get started.”

“Great. Thank you, Scott.” Jed adjusted his bandana, then jammed his hands into his pockets. “Crystal, why don’t you choose first — who will it be?”

Short of denying herself forever the chance to have a photograph taken with the rock god she dreamed of at night, this was the moment of confession. The others were more socially acceptable, but it was Blade who attracted her beyond sense. She flicked a glance at him, trying to discern whether he’d welcome her admiration. His eyes met hers, but she couldn’t read his expression.

“Crystal?” Jed asked again. “Which of the guys are you going to sit with for your picture?”

“Blade, please, if he doesn’t mind,” she whispered, her face on fire.

A cynical half-smile curved Blade’s lips, causing the silver lip ring to catch the light. “It’ll be my pleasure,” he told her. “Come and sit with me, then.”

Crys stumbled over to the couch where he sat, and perched on the edge of it, but the leather was unexpectedly slippery underneath her, sliding her toward Blade’s weight, so that she wound up with her hip against his thigh, which burned like white-hot steel. “So sorry,” she murmured, trying to shift away, but the comfortable couch fought her.

“You’ve no need to be sorry, or shy,” he murmured in response, sliding an arm around her shoulders. “Just relax.”

As she eased herself back against the leather-jacketed arm around her shoulders and the hard warmth of his thigh alongside hers, Crys was astonished to find that the whole interchange had taken only moments. Debbie had claimed a seat next to Easy, gazing at him with unconcealed adoration, and Leah was looking back and forth between Angel and Dice, unable to decide.

“Hey, could I… do you suppose I could have my picture with Angel and Dice?” she asked. “See, you’re both so hot, I just can’t decide, and I’d hate to leave either of you out.” She shot the two of them an ingenuous grin which made them both laugh. They shrugged their agreement, and Jed said he didn’t see why not.

Angel patted the seat beside him, saying, “Come on over, sugar,” and Dice got up from his seat opposite and joined them, hooking a leg over the arm of the couch as he plopped himself down on Leah’s other side.

The photographer adjusted some of the lights, and snapped off a few frames of the three of them, then turned and photographed Debbie listening in adoration as Easy talked — bragging of some fabulous exploit — with her hand resting on his arm in a pose of overt worship. “Raise your chin a bit, please, miss,” he asked softly at one point. “Tilt your shoulders toward me, Easy, that’s it, and drop your right elbow a little. Nice.”

Crys sat in silence at Blade’s side, overwhelmed by proximity and at a loss for words. A rock god, after all; an international star. How could she have a clue what to say?

“Do you know, then?” he asked her quietly, after a while. “Did someone tell you?”

She looked at him, completely puzzled by the nonsense question. “Do I know what?” she replied, startled into meeting his eyes — a beautiful hazel color, blending deep green and amber, which she hadn’t realized from his photographs, in which they usually appeared just dark. The black eyeliner he wore had gone a bit splotchy after the concert, but Crys thought it was actually sexier that way, slightly smeared and imperfect.

Blade laughed, an odd bitter laugh. “Did you know that no one ever chooses me? At these photo-op meet-and-greets, I mean — it’s always Angel or Easy. You’re doing all the right things, sweetheart, and I was wondering if someone told you to be nice to me.”

“Good God, no!” Crys said, utterly shocked that he might think her only being kind. Blushing madly, her hand shaking, she reached up and softly touched his silver lip ring with one finger. “I like… this… very much.”

The popping brightness of a flash startled them both, the moment caught on film. Crys snatched her hand away, clasping it with the other in her lap. “Good, good,” the photographer muttered to himself. “Let’s see what else we can do with this, hmm…” He eyed the pair of them closely, then cleared his throat. “Little lady, d’you think you could see your way to sitting in Blade’s lap for a shot?”

“Sure she will,” said Blade, before Crys could even get her mind around the request. “Climb on up, sweetheart!” He patted his knee in invitation.

Crys shook her head, nearly frozen with embarrassment. “Oh, I couldn’t!”

“Why not? You’re a tiny little thing, bound to be light as a feather… and I want to know how you’d feel on top of me — unless you’re a missionary kind of girl?” he added with a grin. Crys’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. And before she could form a single word, his big strong hands slipped around her waist, and he’d scooped her up onto his lap in one smoothly powerful motion. “Hmm, now, does that feel as good to you as it does to me?” he whispered into her ear. “You’re trembling, Crystal.”

“Crys; everyone calls me Crys,” she corrected him, wanting to change the subject, to buy some time until she could control her reaction to him.

“Crys. You’re still trembling — you’re not afraid of me, are you?”

A tense giggle escaped her. “I’m a little out of my league here, that’s all.”

“You’re doing fine.” Blade laughed softly, in genuine amusement; not at all a bitter laugh this time. “Just pretend we’re alone.” He pulled her close against him, stroking her shoulder in a motion that was both soothing and sensual, until her tremors subsided.

“That’s very nice, Blade,” the photographer said, “but tilt your head slightly toward me. Hmm… little lady, why don’t you lay your head against Blade’s shoulder, nice and relaxed, and look up at him…?” He waited, and Blade squeezed her upper arm with his long guitar-playing fingers, encouraging her. Because Crys didn’t know what else to do, she did as they expected: she laid her head down against Blade’s black-leather-clad shoulder and just breathed, smelling the leather-smell of the jacket, and clean sweat mixed with a hint of soapy citrus, and underneath that a faintly spicy masculine scent. She looked up at the angular smooth-shaven curve of his jaw — felt suddenly, urgently hungry — wanted to lick it.

And the photographer’s flash popped bright white around them. “Great. Okay,” he said to the room at large, “I’m taking the group shot now — no one needs to move, but turn your heads this way and give me a smile.” The flash popped again. “One more.” Flash. “And I’m done. Thank you kindly,” he told them, “I’ve got everything I need now. Have a great evening, gentlemen, I’ll see you tomorrow. Ladies, it’s been a pleasure, I hope you’ve enjoyed meeting Smidge.” Unscrewing the lens from his camera as he went, he walked across to the door and slipped out.

Feeling awkward in such an intimate snuggle once the excuse of photographs was gone, Crys moved to sit upright, preparatory to wrenching herself off Blade’s lap altogether. Had she imagined his reluctant sigh as she pulled away? She couldn’t be sure. “I… I should go,” she said. “I know this was only a public relations thing for you, but it’s been… special for me. So thank you.”

“Wait a second—” Blade pushed up one sleeve of his jacket and unbuckled a silver-studded black leather wristband, then took her hand and fastened the wristband around her much smaller wrist; he had to force the tongue of the buckle through the never-used hole at the inner end of the strap, and she could see the worn place where the buckle had rubbed during his wearing of it. The leather against her skin was warm from his body heat, slightly damp with concert sweat. “There,” he said. “Don’t forget me, huh?!”

“As if I could!” Crys looked down at the black leather band on her wrist, metal studs glinting in the light. Something to remember him by.

The lights flickered twice, and Jed was standing by the door with his hand on the switch. “All good things must come to an end, ladies,” he said, with what could only be interpreted as a satisfied expression on his face. “If you’ll say your goodnights and come with me, I’ll escort you out of the building.”

Blade wrapped his hands around Crys’s waist and boosted her off his lap, again giving her that same sense of physical strength as before. He stood as well. “Take care, sweetheart,” he said.

“And you,” Crys replied. “You take care too.” Then, before she could do some incredibly foolish wanton thing — like reach up to kiss that lovely pierced lip of his, like offer him her body for the night — she forced herself to turn and walk to the open door. Once there, safely out of reach of all that she might desire, she remembered that there were other members of Smidge in the room. “Thank you all so much for giving us the chance to meet you; it’s been such a treat to be here, I’ll never forget it.”

“You’ve been lovely guests, ladies,” said Angel in that melting-chocolate voice, which Crys couldn’t help comparing in her mind to Blade’s deeper, grittier tone. “Thank you for joining us.” Dice stood and bowed to them in elaborate courtly fashion, but Easy only raised a hand in farewell without getting up.

Crys allowed herself one final look and smile at Blade, and then dragged her feet out through the doorway.

♥

The girls didn’t talk much as they walked — one look at the fluorescent lighting and dirty tile of the station platform, one look at each other and they’d known they didn’t want to go home, not yet. The train home meant a return to reality, and all three of them were still half in the glittering world they’d just visited.

“Coffee,” said Leah.

Crys nodded. Yes. Coffee.

“Princess,” agreed Debbie. Thankfully, there was a 24-hour doughnuts-and-coffee dive not too far from the arena — and a brisk walk in the clear night was just, maybe, what they needed to clear the stardust from their eyes.

Walking along with her friends, looking up at the faint stars above the downtown lights, Crys could not calm her spinning mind. It was shock she felt, mostly; first from the dawning recognition that she’d been chiefly attracted to Rhys for his temporarily punk appearance, and then from the intensity of her reaction to Blade. She couldn’t conceal from herself any longer that her taste — kink, maybe — for guys with facial hardware and makeup was stronger than any desire to date a socially acceptable husband-candidate. And then there was that hungry ache, that desire to lick along the vulnerable line of his jaw, the urge to find out what the silver ring in his lip would feel like in a kiss, and worst of all, the mad impulse to offer her body to him for the night. Groupies did stuff like that; he probably wouldn’t have been surprised, might even have accepted. As she walked along, safe with friends and morality intact, she shivered with the awareness that she could have been lying in his hotel bed with answers to all these torturous questions — and, sweet God, how the idea of it burned in her mind.

Princess Donuts was fairly quiet for a weekend night, with only a few groups of post-nightclub revelers sobering up with coffee before heading home. There was no line-up at the counter, where a tired-looking older woman served up coffee and doughnuts on automatic pilot. “Chocolate glazed?” Leah asked, looking at Crys’s tray as they walked over to an out-of-the-way table. Crys usually had a chocolate-dip doughnut.

Crys blinked at her plate. “Oh. Um. I guess I’m having chocolate glazed today.”

“You didn’t notice that you got the wrong kind of doughnut?” Debbie smirked. “Lost in space, are we? Does it have anything to do with sitting in your favorite rock star’s lap for fifteen minutes?”

Leah grinned conspiratorially. “Kind of handy, the photographer posing you like that. So, did Blade have a hard-on? Could you tell?”

“Good God, Leah!” Crys said, but couldn’t stop the hot blush from rising to her face.

“Oho, look at you! He did, didn’t he?” Leah insisted, her eyes avid.

“Well… yeah, pretty much,” Crys confessed in a low voice, torn between embarrassment and fascinated recollection. The few guys she’d dated had all been so tame in comparison; she’d never sat in anyone’s lap before, never met anyone so unashamedly sexual. Does that feel as good to you as it does to me? Blade had asked her, without a shred of awkwardness. Lost in memory, she missed a bit of the conversation; something dirty, to judge by her friends’ snickering.

“—what Easy mentioned, it sounds like they’re all generally, erm, ready for it after a concert,” Debbie was saying in a hushed tone. “Which sort of explains the whole groupie thing.”

“I can’t believe we’re discussing this. We are so not discussing this.” Crys shook her head, unwilling to think about Blade being with a groupie as they sat there. God, I’m such a fool!

“So, what’s going on, Crys?” asked Leah, eyeing her friend with genuine concern. “You’re not acting like yourself. Is it Smidge, or are you thinking about Rhys?”