Fighter: A Bad Boy Romance (16 page)

M
y third book
! Hooray! I just have to thank all of you for making my dreams of being a writer come true. I hope you liked this book as much as I liked writing it. If you haven’t read ROCK HARD or VANISHED yet, I’ve included a sample as well as a link just after this!

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I
’m not even getting paid
for this
, I think as I pace through the back hallways of the photography studio where I have just started as an assistant.

But that’s the way this business works. You work your way up. It’s all about who you know
.

I have to keep reminding myself of this over and over in order to justify pushing through the near heart attack I’m having as my feet echo loudly against the concrete floor leading back to the dressing rooms.

This building used to be some kind of warehouse a few years ago, but the company went under and it went up for sale, and my boss, celebrity photographer Bob Ryan, bought it for pennies on the dollar and set up a studio. It was twice the size of his other place, at least, and cost about a quarter.

I graduated art school in the spring and was lucky enough to get a small showing of some of my photos at the Bombay Bistro, a local coffee shop chain here in Austin. Paul, the owner, is a really nice guy and let me have a week or so to show my senior project I’d done entitled “People of Austin,” a documentary style series on the homeless population of the city. I was hanging my photos when I ran into Bob.

He’d liked my work and given me an offer to intern for him at his new studio, moving lights, fetching gear—gopher work really, and it didn’t pay. But he’d shot for everyone. All the big studios, T.V. networks, magazines, you name it. And although I am an
artist
, I do need to make a living.

After my dad died, my mom worked hard to take care of me, even if that meant working double shifts at the diner so she could help put me through school. Art school at that. I owe it to her to make something of myself, and if that means working for nothing and working my way up then that’s what I’ll do. If I work hard enough, I can prove myself and start making some money to pay her back. I know she doesn’t care or want me to feel guilty, but I want to be able to take care of her, and that’s one of the reasons I’m working so hard.

So I took the “job,” and now, here, on my first day, we’re hosting a photo shoot for the one man on the planet I
never
wanted to see again.

T
he sign
above the dressing room screams in regal red lettering. That’s right. Tommy King, the world’s most famous, chart topping, girl slaying rock star.

And also my high school crush.

I doubt he’ll even remember me. We were in band class together. Two band geeks. I played the flute, badly, and he was percussion before he got into guitar and dropped out of school. We’d traded glances across the room during rehearsal, and played that little game you play in high school of pretending to run into each other so you can have a “conversation.” Dropping little bits of gossip to your friends, knowing they would spread it around and it would eventually get back to them.

I’d let it slip that I had a crush on Tommy King, or Tommy McPherson as he was known then, and after that information had successfully done its rounds through the rumor mill, it had come back that Tommy indeed had a crush on me too.

It was a rainy day after school, and I was waiting for my mom to come pick me up when Tommy approached me.

“
H
ey
, Alex,” he said. I turned around, pretending not to know he was there.

“Oh hey, Tommy.”

I played it cool, but my stomach was in knots. I had pretty bad anxiety back then, and I was praying that I wouldn’t throw up. That would really ruin the moment.

“Waiting for your mom?”

“Mmmhmmm, yeah,” I said, nodding my head. We both stood there in silence for a moment, every second killing me. I was just waiting for him to ask. I was ready to say yes to whatever came out of his mouth. The rain blew in under the overhang and I shivered.

“So you play guitar?” I asked him.

“Well sorta,” he replied, somewhat embarrassed. “I’m not very good.”

“You gonna start a band?” I joked.

“Yeah, right! I wish!”

We both laughed, then the silence took over again. I looked down at my feet. Finally, after what felt like a thousand years, he spoke.

“So, I was wondering if you wanted to go to the dance with me on Friday.”

“Yes,” I said quickly. “I’d love to.”

His whole face lit up. Tommy was so sweet back then. He tried hard not to look too excited, as boys do, but I could tell he was just as nervous as I was.

“Great!” He said. And then … silence again. Neither one of us knew what to say. Thankfully my mom pulled up and rescued me from the awkwardness.

“That’s my mom. I should go. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah, for sure,” he said, tossing up a sort of wave-high five thing as I took the steps down to the parking lot, leaving him hanging.

I thought I heard him mutter something to himself about being an idiot, as I got into my mom’s car, and when I turned back to wave at him he was already gone.

“What was that?” my mom asked me.

“Oh, nothing,” I said back. I figured I’d tell her after the dance —after I knew whether there was going to be anything to tell. And it turned out that was a good idea, because we never got our dance.

The next day Tommy didn’t show up to school. Or the day after, or the day after. He didn’t really have any friends, so no one knew where he was. After a few weeks the rumor was he’d dropped out of school and moved to California. Then that was replaced by the one about him being in jail for theft, and then having been quietly expelled. But no one knew.

I didn’t cry. I wasn’t that upset, but part of me just felt cheated. I’d had a pretty serious crush on him, and we never even got a chance to see if it went anywhere. I never even got my
first dance
with him.

T
hen a few years later
, there Tommy was on T.V. Now he was Tommy King, lead singer and guitarist of the band Hot Planet, and when I saw his first interview I knew that he was no longer the guy I once knew.

There were rumors about his rock star status. He was covered in tattoos now, with a rock star haircut and every time he was on T.V. he had a girl under his arm that looked like she’d just stepped out of either a modeling campaign or a porno film. It seemed to shift from week to week.

I’d watched him interviewed once by some female host who couldn’t stop dropping sexual innuendos and clearly wanted to sleep with him. There were rumors that they had all over the internet, but neither one of them ever confirmed or denied it. It’s all part of that rock star image you have to maintain. I’m sure underneath he’s still the good guy I remember. But I wonder, if with all his time on the road, he still remembers me. And maybe that’s why I’m so goddamn nervous today.

As I make my way down the hallway, I have to step over a bra lying on the concrete floor. Yes, a bra. An expensive one too, on the floor just a few feet away is a pair of panties. Well panties is being generous—more like a piece of butt floss. I never understood how girls could wear those and still be comfortable.

As I step up to the dressing room door, I’m greeted by the pumping sound of bass. It sounds like there’s a real party going on in there. With a deep sigh, I pound my fist on the door. I wait, but there’s no answer. I pound again, harder this time. Then I hear an annoyed male voice answer.

“Yah? Who is it?”

“Uhm, it’s Alex? We’re ready for you now!”

The voice calls out again, louder and more annoyed. “
Who
is it?!”

“Alex, we’re—!”

“Who the hell is Alex?”

The door opens quickly and I find myself face to face with Brian, the bands bassist. He’s shirtless, showing off his pale, tattooed body. He has shoulder length black hair and reminds me of the lead singer from the Chili Peppers. That’s probably the look he’s going for.

“Hey, baby,” he says seductively. “What’s happening?”

Before I know it, he’s sliding an arm around my waist and pulling our crotches together. I don’t even know what to do, so I just put my arms up in front of me and push.

“I’m looking for Tommy!” I sputter, feeling more uncomfortable than I’ve ever felt in my life. He obviously thinks I’m some sort of groupie. I feel my anxiety twisting into anger as his grip tightens around my waist.

“Yeah? You wanna see Tommy? I know where we can find him. But how’s about you and me head to one of these spare rooms for a few minutes first?” he says with a smirk, grinding his hips against me. I feel his bulge press against my thigh, and I lose it.

“No, thank you!” I say, pushing him back off me. “I’m not some silly groupie! I’m the photographer’s assistant!”

I’m trying to be as assertive as I can, but I’m flustered, and I blow hair out of my face and smooth the wrinkles in my shirt out.

“And? Don’t you know who I am, baby?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care,” I say. The truth is, I do know who he is, but nothing pisses off a guy like Brian than someone oblivious of his rock star status. I push past him into the first room of the dressing room, a somewhat living room that’s been taken over by the band and their groupies.

Girls prance around in next to nothing, waving red plastic cups, bottles of beer and I don’t even want to know what else. One girl, who I realize must be the owner of the bra and panties out in the hall, brushes by me, completely naked, dragging her mess of blonde hair all over my face.

I feel like a black swan standing here in my ripped jeans, oversized black t-shirt and thick black glasses. I try to smooth down the absolute mess that is my hair. I didn’t have time to do anything with it this morning, and I really didn’t think it would matter. That was before I knew the hottest rock band on the planet would be in our studio.

“You want a drink?” I hear another male voice behind me and turn to see Clark, the bands second guitarist, lounging on a chair with an acoustic in his hand, cigarette in his lips, and a topless girl on his lap. He raises his eyebrows to me. “It’s a party, baby.”

I am so grossed out right now I don’t even know if I can function. But I have to find Tommy and get him out to Bob. I spot a door across the sea of tits and ass in front of me and thread my way through it. I reach for the handle, but before I can grab it, Brian, the drummer, steps in front of me.

“Sorry. Private, uh … property.”

“Are you kidding?” I say.

“Uh, no trespassing?”

“Get out of my way, Brian,” I say, trying to skirt by him. But he won’t budge. He’s wearing his signature look tank top with holes all over it and runs his hand over his shaved head like he’s trying to re-learn the English language. I wait just a second, looking at him expectedly, but he just raises a finger like he’s thought of something. But I don’t care. I don’t have time for this. I shoulder right past him and grab the handle.

“Tommy’s a little, uh … indisposed,” he stammers as I open the door.

And there he is. Tommy King.

Completely naked. Surrounded by three naked women.

“Holy shit,” I say under my breath. It’s him. The guy I haven’t seen since high school. And he’s wearing nothing but his birthday suit. Well, that’s not true. His pants are down at his knees, right below his ….

I feel myself go red as I realize where my eyes are. I look up and our eyes meet. One of the girls hanging off his arm coos and giggles.

“Oooh, one more? I guess we could make this a … one, two, three,” she counts everyone in the room. “Fivesome!”

The other girls laugh and cheer, and I panic, turning around and rushing out the door, slamming it behind me. I’m overwhelmed by the hot naked bodies as I shove my way out of the dressing room and spill out into the hall, hearing the sounds of the rock star party slowly fade behind me as I come back out into the studio.

I stop and lean against a light stand, trying to get myself together.

That was him. The guy I never thought I’d see again.

And look at him now. The typical man whore, rock star douche. My knuckles go white as my hand clenches the stand.

“Did you get him?” I hear Bob ask. I turn to him with a look of complete panic on my face.

“I don’t think so.”

I hear Bob curse under his breath and storm off in the direction of the dressing rooms. I know I’m screwing up, but images of naked big breasted groupies dance through my mind. The most famous rock star on the planet, naked, in our dressing room, surrounded by bimbos, just makes my heart sink.

Tommy King, once Tommy McPherson, was not the man I thought I knew.