“Ready? Nervous?” Amie says after she gives our names to the security guard in this pricey Hollywood Hills gated community and follows her GPS until we arrive at the address. She pulls her Prius up the immaculate drive in front of the modern style home.
“I was born ready. Not nervous. Just anxious.” And that’s the truth. I can’t wait to get this over with. Meet this band,Three Ugly Guys, a rock group made up of four musicians who exploded out of Arizona not even eighteen months ago. I did my research because I like to be prepared, and while they’ve had different drummers since hitting success, the band has been rocking for several years.
Oh, and they’re gorgeous. Well, at least the three original members are. But that’s more an irritation than a distraction for me. I know that type. Famous. Good looking. Talented.Rich.They’re guaranteed to have groupies in every city. That’s fine by me. I’ll keep my head down, to myself, but I can’t ignore that it’ll be hard to watch. Women, much like my mother, being used up and played for a moment of pleasure and the false promise of more.
But I’m not here for that. I’m here to make music and share it with the world. And these guys, they picked me to open in all twenty-two shows of their summer tour. It’s insane and amazing and utterly perfect. Less than twenty-four hours after signing with Off Track Records, Amie called me with the news I’m going on tour in four days and she was picking me up to meet the band.
“Let’s go meet these ugly assholes!” I smile at her and pop the door handle to step from the car.
“Don’t, Lexi. Please play nice,” Amie begs as she catches up to me in her designer heels. My combat boots fill me with confidence with each powerful stride.
“I’m nice.” I chuckle to myself.
“No, you’re not. But I love you anyway. Just cut the sarcasm and brutal truth for thirty minutes. Shove it deep inside. You can do that, right?”
“Oh, can I? Pretty please?” I steeple my hands and bat my lashes.
“Smart ass.” Amie gives a knock at the door and moments later we’re greeted by a woman who must work here.
She’s dressed casually and welcomes us inside with a smile, but nothing about her screams rock star or groupie. No, she’s more soccer mom, or lifer in the suburbs with her khaki capris and blue floral blouse. “You must be with the label. Come on in. The boys are downstairs finishing up practice.”
“Yes. Thank you.” Amie says and I do my best to produce a polite smile while taking in the grandeur of this home. From the outside it’s simplistic and modern, but inside it’s brash and bold. Color and art everywhere. Natural light sneaks through the oversized windows and paints the air with a life-filled energy. My fingers itch for my guitar and notepad and I have to squelch the inspiration that bubbles to explode.
“Follow me this way.” The woman leads us past the open living room, down a hallway, and past several closed doors to a spiral staircase. “Just down here. Go on in. They’ll play all day if you don’t interrupt them.” She laughs with fondness in her tone and turns to leave Amie and myself to find our way. We take the stairs that disappear down into what must be a basement. With the way this home is situated on the hilltop, I wonder just how many stories it has.
The bass beat calls us through the open doors of another living room that includes a small kitchen and into a roomy, state-of-the-art control booth that showcases a mostly soundproof practice space visible through glass windows almost as wide as the room itself.
Amie grips the volume nob, slides it forward and the control room fills with music.
They’re good. Sure. But they aren’t rock gods by any means. Their music is in that style that’s just rock enough to make the diehards happy, but still trendy so they’ll make top forty stations. It’s smart for marketing purposes and I don’t begrudge them their success. I’m chasing my own dream and these four have given me a direct ticket to the spotlight. It’s mine for the taking. My time to shine, and show the world what Lexi Marx is made of.
“God damn, he’s incredible.” Amie whispers when the lead singer breaks into a guitar solo. Her lips transform to that smile girls wear when they see someone they’d follow into a bathroom and fuck. She might think she’s admiring his talent, but she’s been seduced by the charisma, the power, and the confidence that comes from fame. I don’t blame her, but the entire exchange sickens me. He isn’t special. None of them are. They’re exactly like every other man in the world.
Just another asshole with a guitar.
“Don’t you think, Lexi?” She bumps my shoulder and the movement grabs the attention of those beyond the glass that separates us. The front man, Trent Donavan, flips his long hair from his face and meets my gaze. His eyes are predatory, a deep, gorgeous green, and they cut through my bullshit well-knit perfected exterior. Well, fuck him. I tilt my head and raise my eyebrows in silent challenge.
He moves to the microphone and his lips move against the corded metal in an almost illicit manner. Amie curses under her breath and I get it, I do. He oozes sex, attraction, lust. Except his magic doesn’t work on me. He’s too much like my bastard of a father.
I purse my lips and shrug, expecting it will fuck with his mojo. Instead, his lips pull into an ear-to-ear smile and his deep, raspy laughter comes through the speakers before he delves back into the refrain. He never once drops his gaze from mine and there’s no way in hell I’ll look away first. If anything I’m stubborn as hell, so we remain in this juvenile standoff and battle of wills.
The song ends and he raises his brow, giving a nod before turning away from the mic and toward the band. They all set their instruments down, albeit leisurely, so Amie and I wait a good fifteen minutes before they finally emerge from their practice room.
“Amie Biers. Off Track Records. Nice to meet you.” She extends her hand to each of the guys. To an outsider she appears professional and unaffected by their close proximity. But we used to hit the frat parties from time to time, so I know she’d rather be jumping their bones. She does good though, and maintains a contained front. “Let me introduce you to Lexi Marx.”
Sean Willis steps forward first. “Nice to meet you, Lexi. I’m Sean.”
“Hey, Sean. Nice to meet you as well. Sick bass solo in that last song,” I say and his cheeks pull with a smile.
I shake hands with Austin Jones, whose eyes linger at my breasts longer than socially acceptable. I’d be pissed if I had higher expectations.
“Lexi. Everyone calls me Iz.” The drummer, so much older than the rest of the band, squints and tilts his head to the right. “Do I know you, honey?” And the moment he says the words I’m transported back to a memory I’d like to forget. Thirteen years old. Last visit with my dad. No. Don’t think about it.Shit, shit, shit!I’ve met this guy before ...
“I don’t think so. I have a familiar look,” I say sweetly, shake his hand, and submit myself to the scrutiny of their hotshot lead singer. I hold out my hand. “Nice to meet you.”
He steps forward, his frame so much larger than mine, and wraps my hand inside his massive one. Seriously, this guy’s like a giant in comparison to my five-two. He tilts his head, eyes meeting mine again as though heknowsme. “You do look really familiar.”
“Maybe you’re a fan of my music?” I quip and I can almost hear Amie groan.
