I Want You to Want Me (Rock Star Romance #2) (5 page)

His pulse kicked up and he charged back into the lounge, found her rooting through a drawer. “What the
fuck
are you doing?”

She stepped back. “I’ve always wondered what it was like on a tour bus. It must be so hard to have six people living here together.”

“Game over, sweetheart. I know you’re not a groupie.” He stalked toward her. “Give me your phone.”

“What?” The very first hint of fear in her eyes blew the roof off his anger.

So she
did
have pictures. But of what? He didn’t have anything incriminating. “Hand it over. Now.”

She softened, looking all sweet again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d mind if I took a quick look around.”

“Cut the shit. I know you’re a reporter.”

Genuine confusion tightened her features.

“Derek?” He heard Emmie, but he didn’t take his eyes off the woman.

“Not now, Em. I’m trying to get everyone off the bus so we can get out of here.”

“Derek.” Emmie stood beside him, one hand on his shoulder blade. “She’s not a reporter.”

“You
know
her?”

“Very well.”

He gave the woman a hard look. “Who are you?”

She gave him a gentle smile. “I’m Violet Davis. I’m—”

“Wait,” Emmie said, stepping between them. “Let me explain.”

He didn’t care who did the talking, he just wanted answers. “Talk.”

“Do you remember when Caroline got kicked off the plane in Dublin?” Emmie asked.

The noise of a thousand cymbals crashed in his head.

“Derek, man, let me talk to you.” Slater came up behind Emmie.

“You’re a fucking sober companion?”

“Don’t shout at her,” Emmie said. “None of this is her fault.”

“Right. It’s mine. I can’t control my own fucking band so you hire a fucking
sober companion
?” Christ, Caroline Ledger popped Oxy like they were Skittles, forced planes to land from her batshit crazy behavior, got caught shoplifting a dozen times, trashed multiple hotel rooms—when she was nothing more than a student at NYU—and these people compared the band’s behavior to
that
?

“No, that’s not what this is about.” Emmie looked on the verge of tears, but he didn’t give a shit.

“Can you give us a minute?” Slater asked the women.

But the moment Slater made a move toward him, Violet stepped in his friend’s path. She gave him one of her soft smiles and said, “Actually, I’d like to talk to him by myself, if that’s all right.”

Emmie nodded. Slater looked to Derek like he was asking if it was okay. Nothing about this situation was okay. Nothing.

And while it might not be Violet’s fault—and even in his anger, he knew it wasn’t—he still didn’t want anything to do with her.

“You’re throwing me under the fucking bus?” he said to his sister and Slater.

“It’s not like that, man. It’s not.” Slater looked to Violet. “Let me just talk to him.”

Derek didn’t want to talk to Slater or Emmie, so he appreciated that Violet stood her ground. With a slight shake of her head, she ended the conversation. Slater stood there a moment longer, then exhaled roughly, and left them alone.

Violet, her subtle floral scent floating in the air around him, gazed at him sweetly. “Well, good to know you’ve got more game than that.”

“What?” Not the comment he expected.

“You know, earlier. You were testing me.”

The mischief in her eyes rubbed against the anger, diffusing it. “Yeah.”

“That’s good to know. Otherwise the whole sex god thing wouldn’t make any sense.”

What a fucking day. He collapsed onto the couch, covered his face in his hands. He couldn’t believe his sister had hired a sober companion. Did she think he was a drunk? That the reason he couldn’t control the guys was because he was partying as hard as they were?

The cushion shifted beside him. She tugged on his T-shirt to get his attention, acting like they’d known each other since third grade. “No one thinks you’re an alcoholic. That’s not why I’m here.”

“Are you a sober companion?”

“Yes. But I’m not an addiction counselor. I’m a
minder
. There’s a big difference. I’m here to look out for you guys, keep away the bad influences.”

“So if you’d had more time, would you have gone through my bunk and checked for hidden bottles?”
Does Emmie really think I’m a drunk?

“Yes and no. Yes, I would check your bunk—all of your
bunks. But, no, I’m not looking for bottles or flasks. Alcohol’s easy to detect. I’d smell it on your breath and coming off your skin.”

“Emmie and Slater knew you were gonna snoop through my shit?”

She nodded. “Not just you, all the guys. Like I said, I’m not here to be your sober companion. I’m here to help the band get a handle on the partying. Before I take a job, I have to do a basic assessment. I’m not actually digging through personal belongings. Just taking a quick glance under pillows, inside shoes. But if we told the guys what I do, they’d hide everything. They’d shut down all their sources. I have to get a handle on the situation first.”

“Nice try, babe. Sweet touch, trying to make it sound like we’re on the same team. But these guys? They’re not just some assholes I’m stuck on a bus with. They’re my brothers, and I don’t fuck with their heads. If we’ve got a problem, we deal with it.”

“My understanding is that you don’t have time to get a handle on things. Hiring me now gets Irwin back, gaining you time to square things away.”

Get Irwin back?
“What’re you talking about? What do you mean, get Irwin back?”

“He didn’t come to the show tonight. Emmie seems to think that means he’s losing interest.”

“Fuck.” He shot off the couch, ready to tear into his sister. And what about Gen? She had to have known. Why the hell hadn’t she said anything? Christ, she was in on this, too?

“Derek?”

That fucking sweet voice. And then that scent swirled around him, letting him know she was there. She touched a hand to his shoulder blade. “Can we talk first? Before you go and yell at your sister?”

“You have nothing to do with this.”

“Turn around and talk to me, please.” Something in her voice—commanding, but soft,
caring
—made him listen. She had a strength, a steadiness. A determination that cut right through him.

“What?” he snapped.

“This isn’t Emmie’s fault. It isn’t Slater’s fault, and it
certainly isn’t your fault. You’ve got a situation.” She shrugged, as if to say it was as simple as that. “And I can help you. First, just hiring me gets Irwin’s attention back on you. He trusts me. Secondly, though, let’s put this into perspective. We don’t have a huge problem here. I mean, it’s all relative, isn’t it?”

That warm, sexy smile again. He didn’t want it to penetrate, but it did. He let her go on.

“Any other A&R guy would be partying with you. You just happened to get the one who doesn’t work like that. Let me ask you something, do
you
think the guys are solid? Partying, sure, but everything’s under control?”

His gaze shifted away. Fucking Pete. “Mostly.”

She pulled a baggie filled with pills out of her back pocket. “I found this in that shoe over there.”

In the corner of the lounge a scuffed Nike high-top lay on its side, as though it’d been hastily kicked off. Its companion sat upright a few feet away. Derek’s pulse quickened as he recognized Pete’s shoes. “What is it?” He didn’t do drugs so he didn’t recognize them.

With a fingernail, she pressed one pill into a corner of the baggie and held it up to him. “These green capsules? They’re called greenies. Athletes use them to get more aggressive, more alert before a game.” She shifted the pills, pushing a different one to the corner. “This pink one’s Ambien. To get to sleep.”

He closed his eyes. “It isn’t easy, on the road. Every day’s a new city, every night a different show. And after a show, you’re too amped up to sleep. You have so much energy you don’t know what to do with it. But you also have to get up the next day and do it all over again.”

“I get that. But see this bag? This isn’t one of your guys buying some weed or a couple ounces of coke from some random guy out there. This is deliberate. Someone’s playing doctor with one of your guys. It’s one person, one source.”

He blew out a breath, giving a curt nod. He hated that he hadn’t known what Pete was doing. Had to hear it from some stranger. “I’ll handle it.”

She reached for his forearm, lifted it, letting her fingernail trace his tattoo.

The shot of lust electrifying his nerves made no sense in this moment. She stood close to him, feeling so . . .
familiar
. And she smelled so fucking good. He wanted to yank his arm away, but for fuck’s sake he didn’t.

Her thumb kept circling his tattoo. “This whole notion of chaos? That’s where I come in. Of course you can handle anything, but in order to focus on what the record label needs you to do, which is write amazing songs and perform them, you can hand the other stuff off to me. You wear a lot of hats. I wear one. So allow me to take care of the partying issue. Not only will it enable you to do your work, it’ll preserve your relationship with your friends.” She smiled like she was so sure she’d won him over. Like she was offering him relief, the answer to all his prayers.

“You can cut the shit.” He pulled his arm away. “If it’ll keep Irwin happy, then fine, have at it. I know I’m not going to win this one. But let’s get one thing clear.” He leaned into her, all his anger and frustration making his muscles rigid. “I’m twenty-eight years old, and I’ve done damn well for myself. I don’t need a fucking babysitter.”

Derek Valencia had a fucking babysitter.

He hardly recognized her this morning, as she sat beside him in the little banquette. Wearing no makeup and a simple white T-shirt and black leggings, she looked younger, fresher. Other than the dainty antique-looking watch, she wore no jewelry.

Still, even with his eyes closed, he’d recognize her by her scent alone.

Emmie and Slater sat across the table from them. He knew they expected him to yell or give them shit. But he wasn’t going to do that.

He didn’t need more trouble. He needed to focus on selling out shows, getting the band’s name out there, and making sure the album went gold. Everything else? He’d let the minder play hide and seek with Pete’s stash. Let her find out who was supplying the guys. It would only help him in the long run.

“I’ve got good news and bad.” His sister placed her hands palm-down on the table. She smiled at him. “I know you well enough to know you want the bad news first.”

He nodded, unwilling to make nice just yet.

“Okay, the bad news is that Irwin’s not coming to the next couple of shows. But the good news is that he’s thrilled
Violet’s with us, and he totally believes you had nothing to do with throwing the girls in the pool. Basically, he said, ‘He’s not a bloody muppet, for Christ’s sake.’ So that’s good.”

That
was
good news. He hated Irwin thinking he needed a babysitter.

“So, Violet, tell us the game plan.” Slater leaned back on the bench seat, one arm slung on the back of the cushion, his other hand on Emmie’s thigh. “What happens now that you’re signed on?”

“I’m just going to observe for a while. I’d appreciate another twenty-four hours, so I can get a feel for your routines, your interactions. After that, I’ll come up with some suggestions.” She gave Derek a quick look—gauging his reaction? “And then I’ll implement them.”

“What kind of suggestions?” Slater asked.

“Last night you guys mentioned the adrenaline rush you experience after a show. I’ll come up with alternatives to expending all that energy.”

“There’s no alternative to fucking, sweetheart.”

The only give-away that he’d pissed her off came from the way her gaze dropped to the table. Taking a breath, she shifted, turning her back on Emmie and Slater, making her close in on him. It was all kinds of weird the way she could make him feel this rush of intimacy with her. “I need you to do something for me, Derek.”

Damn, that voice. All soft and kind. It killed him. Dug right into the roots of his anger and yanked. “Just talk, okay? Don’t use your psychotherapist voice with me.”

She ignored him. “I need you to wipe out all your expectations about me, get rid of the resentment. You’re the leader of this band. You might all be the same age, equally talented, whatever, but you’re clearly the leader. So if you’re not on board, if you’re treating me like you can barely tolerate me, you’re going to undermine my efforts. And none of this will work.”

“Not my problem, babe. You do your job, I’ll do mine.”

Emmie gasped, but Violet didn’t even glance at her, just held his gaze, keeping him locked on to her.

“If you don’t want me here, I’m happy to leave. I’ve got other things I’d like to do.”

“Derek,” Emmie said, a warning in her tone.

Still, Violet ignored her. “But if you’d like my help, if you want to see if I can turn things around, then I’ll give you a hundred percent. And in return, I need the same level of commitment from you.”

“You’re questioning my level of commitment?” He looked at Slater and Emmie. “I give a hundred fucking percent to this band. No one’s as invested as I am in its success. But playing games with you? Sorry, not interested. Like I said, you do your thing. I’ll do mine. Anything else we need to talk about, sweetheart?”

She rested a hand gently on his forearm. “I’m going to say this once nicely, okay? Don’t call me terms of endearment like that. You’re not Humphrey Bogart, this isn’t the fifties, and I’m not some tart who’s dying to give you a blow job.”

Derek just stared at her. How did she deliver such a hard-ass punch with that sweet expression?

“It’s condescending and patronizing,” she said. “You don’t need to put me in my place. I’m quite clear what my role is, and it’s not catering to your ego. I have one purpose here, and that’s to help. I’m not your commanding officer. You don’t have to take my suggestions. But while we
are
working together, I’ll need you to address me in a respectful manner. Okay?”

“Fucking hell.” He pulled out of the booth, yanked open the fridge, and reached for a cold bottle of water.
Two weeks
into their first tour. This should be the best time of his life. Headlining festivals up and down the Eastern Seaboard with his band?
Come on
.

What the fuck happened?

He heard them talking behind him, but he tuned them out.

He didn’t need anyone to tell him what course they were on. He saw where they were headed if they didn’t get their shit together. And there wasn’t a chance in hell he’d prove his father right. This band would not blow up because of partying and nymphs and rock star behavior.

No, he didn’t need a babysitter. But truthfully? It
wasn’t
working.

He twisted off the cap and downed half the bottle.

It wouldn’t hurt to have someone looking out for the bullshit stuff—the drugs, drinking, and partying. It’d give him a chance to have a little fun himself.

He thought of Gen, how he should’ve been able to have time alone with her last night. He
should
be having fun—not just handling things.

Soft laughter drew his attention back to the trio at the table. As he stood before them, all their eyes turned to him, and he said, “Okay.”

Violet’s features warmed and lightened. “Okay.”

•   •   •

Standing
to the side of the stage, where she had a clear view of both the band and the audience, Violet watched the sea of ecstatic faces. Gazes pinned on the lead singer, the crowd screamed, danced, and sang along to the final song of the night.

She completely understood why the women called him Slater-fucking-Vaughn. It wasn’t about his outrageously good looks or his incredibly hard body. It was the accessibility, the humility. He just came across as a really nice guy, who happened to rock a pair of jeans like a model.

Weirdly, though, while Slater commanded the attention with his stage presence and deeply emotional singing, her gaze always seemed to wander back to the bass player.

An intense bundle of energy locked into a rock-hard body, Derek didn’t show off or try to draw attention to himself. Instead, he got lost in the music, sometimes closing his eyes, his head moving like he was reading the beat in the air. His passion drew her in, made her fixate on him.

Just then, as if sensing her interest, he opened his eyes and looked right at her. Awareness exploded in her chest, sending a shower of fiery sparks throughout her body.

Oh, brother. In his worn jeans that molded the hard muscles of his thighs and ass and his big black boots, he was pure, hot
man
.

With a screech of instruments, the song came to an abrupt end. The audience went crazy, rushing the stage and screaming. Ben tossed his drumsticks into the crowd, Derek hefted his guitar over his head with one hand and
pumped it a few times, while Slater shouted, “We fuckin’ love you guys,” before leaving the stage.

The guys brushed past, not even noticing her. She could see the wildness in their eyes, the sweat on their skin, the savage smiles. They were amped up, just as Derek had described.

Forcing herself into work mode, she joined their entourage, trailing behind them, keeping her sights on Pete. So many people hugged them, shook their hands, it was hard to see more intimate interactions—like who was handing him a snack-sized baggie.

“First time backstage?”

She whipped around to face Derek. With a white hand towel, he mopped his face.
My God, he’s gorgeous.
Towering over her with an almost feral energy, his worn black T-shirt clung to his broad shoulders and thick arms. A tribal tattoo banding around his right biceps only heightened his rugged appeal.

“Oh, no. My clients get all kinds of invitations. I’ve been to every kind of show or event you can think of.”

“You don’t seem pleased. Didn’t like the show?”

She gazed into amber eyes that studied her with unnerving intensity. Where Slater had movie star good looks and charisma, Derek had a rougher, earthier vibe. Scruffy chin whiskers, tats, and an aura of pure sexuality gave him an edge that made her just a little uncomfortable.

Not that she thought of him sexually, but if she did, she’d think of him as hard, demanding, and
completely
uninhibited.

Why did that get her excited? She’d never been with anyone like that before.

Okay, not thinking about Derek Valencia in that context.

“I loved the show. You guys are terrific. It’s just . . .” She gestured to the backstage frenzy. “It’s hard to keep an eye on three guys in all this chaos.”

He leaned in close, and she saw his nostrils flare. Was he sniffing her?

“Son?” A man appeared beside him, clapping him on the back. Tall with manic eyes, he wore a short-sleeved linen shirt men his age typically wore loosely over slacks to cover their bellies.

Derek flinched. A flash of stark fear quickly hardened into anger. “Dad? What’re you doing here?”

So this was Eddie Valencia. The jazz legend looked nothing like the images she’d found on Google. Seemed he hadn’t been photographed in many years.

“Now, why the hell would you be surprised your old man showed up at one of your gigs?” He gestured to the younger man beside him. “You’ve heard of Buck O’Reilly? Buck, my son, Derek Valencia.”

The younger man tucked his long, lank hair behind his ear with one hand while the other reached for Derek’s. “You bet. Been trying for a while to get him on the show.”

Derek gestured to her. “Dad, Buck, this is Violet Davis.”

Oh, nuts. She hadn’t had a chance to talk to the guys about her role in their lives. Including her fake name. Usually, she posed as a girlfriend to avoid embarrassment for the client, but in the case of five guys, she could always be a record company representative. She should’ve talked to them about it already, but everything had moved so quickly.

“So nice to meet you.” She shook both their hands, surprised at the swipe of Eddie’s thumb over the back of hers. Unnerved, she focused on Buck. “What show is that?”

“Ever hear of
Artists Unplugged
?” Eddie asked.

“Of course.” Violet smiled.

“That’s Buck’s cable show. All the big players do it.” Under that genial persona, Violet saw a hardness as he looked at his son. Like he was taunting him.

Derek met his dad’s focused expression with one of his own. “We spent nearly a year in the studio and now we’re on tour. Been a busy time.” He paused. “You remember what that was like, right, Dad?”

Tension pulled the group taut. Without even thinking, she reached for his hand, gave it a squeeze. He had to know not to throw down publicly with his own dad.

“You’re damn right I remember.” Eddie bellowed out a laugh. “My guys, man, we’d hole up in the studio day and night. Didn’t give a damn about albums or tours or dating models. None of that shit. All we wanted to do was jam. For us, it was all about the music. But these are different times, right, Buck?”

Derek stiffened, and Violet could not believe a father could treat his own son this way. She pressed closer to him, wanting him to know she was right there with him.

“Where do you record your shows?” she asked, more to break the tension than to hear the answer.

The hipster seemed relieved. “New York. I’ve got a small studio in the West Village. I also do a blog. Hey, you guys mind if I get a picture of you? Father and son?” He whipped out his phone. In a flash, Eddie had his arm around his son. The picture was taken with Derek looking awkward and uncomfortable. Nothing like the strong, commanding man he was.

“Fuck,” Derek muttered under his breath. She gave his hand another squeeze. She’d fix it.

“How about I get a shot of the three of you? Wouldn’t that be fun for your blog?” She reached for the phone, and Buck handed it over. “Great.” As they arranged themselves, Violet pretended not to know how to work the camera. She quickly opened the gallery. “Oh, darnit. I think I deleted that one.” She glanced up at Derek, horrified to see his desperate, haunted expression. He completely hated this moment with his dad. “Okay, let’s try this again. Smile.”

She locked her gaze with Derek’s, letting him know she’d wait as long as it took for him to settle into his cool bass player persona.

The moment he did, she pressed the button. “Got it.” As she handed the phone back, she reached for Derek’s arm. “We really should get going. You’ve got press to do.”

“So what’s it going to take to get you on Buck’s show?” his dad said. “You’re not afraid of performing without your band, are you?”

“Jesus, Dad, don’t make an ass of yourself. I don’t have anything to be afraid of. We’ve got a different festival or gig every night of the week. I’ll do the show when things settle down.”

“Sure thing. Looking forward to it.” Buck seemed uncomfortable with the battle between father and son.

“I’m sure you’ve got plenty of talent under all that . . .” Eddie made a sweeping gesture from Derek’s biker boots to his chin-length dark blond hair. His laughter died down as he
gave Buck a serious expression. “You really should give my son a chance. Underneath all the noise, he’s got some talent. Hell, he’s my son. Some of it has to have rubbed off, right?”

Oh, hell, no. This man was not getting away with this crap. Violet smiled at Buck. “Didn’t you love that article in
Rolling Stone
when Michael Kramer compared Derek to Les Claypool and Paul McCartney? Oh, my God, made me so proud of him. He said Derek’s got the ‘deeply melodic, flawless bass of Paul McCartney, along with the ability to funk things up with Les Claypool’s signature slap bass sound.’” She made sure she radiated pure pride.