Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

TOMMY

ORPHEUS THEATRE, NOLA, HALLOWEEN

" H ey, Tommy, you joining us at the club tonight?"

I was so busy working that I didn't even notice Brodie James standing beside me until he'd asked the question. The lead singer for Wayward Lane had just finished a monster performance to a sold-out crowd. Sweat was pouring down his lithe body, his black curls a matted mess, his stage makeup smeared. He had a towel around his neck and was busy chugging back a neon bottle of electrolyte water, his manager, Van, by his side.

"That'd be cool," I replied, setting aside the stack of cables in my hand. "Thanks Dee."

I appreciated the man and his music. Brodie was talented as fuck, gorgeous, and outspoken. A fiercely snarky but protective guy, and one that I was proud to call my friend.

Brodie nodded. "The boys from Killmine are coming. Ace, too."

Ace was my boss, a kick-ass sound engineer, a road crew warrior, and an all-around great guy. He'd hired me when I was a na?ve newbie, nineteen, and in dire need of a job. I'd hit the road and never looked back. And look at me now? Working alongside a world-famous rock band, not to mention partying with them and the rest of the crew.

And being here in New Orleans? It had nightlife that was heady for a twenty-five-year-old like me. After a long show, letting loose was going to be just what I needed. And hopefully, I'd find a hot guy to hook up with. Even though I wasn't a performer, the sights and sounds of concert day got my adrenaline pumped up like nothing else.

"I'll see you there," I confirmed with a smile and a nod.

Brodie's trademark smirk appeared. "It should be a great time. We've invited everyone in the fucking city."

"Don't forget who's coming with you," Van interrupted.

"Don't start," Brodie bit back and rolled his eyes. "Why can't the label just leave me the fuck alone?"

Van sighed, and Brodie stomped off the stage. That wasn't unusual. Brodie didn't like to be put in any kind of box.

"If you'll excuse us," Van muttered, then he followed the lead singer.

Van and Brodie often butted heads, as artists and managers do, but Brodie respected the hell out of Van and the reverse was also true. Still, anyone who'd been around them for the past few years could see there was more tension between them lately.

Just before they stepped out of sight, Van placed a hand on Brodie's back. Interesting, but none of my business.

Shaking my head at my musings, I got my mind back to work and hauled another set of cables over my arm. Being a roadie on rock tours meant I was the first one on-site and the last to leave. It meant long days, longer nights, and moving a city's worth of equipment in twenty-four hours. Still, I loved my job and wouldn't trade it for anything. And being a part of this rock ‘n' roll family had its perks. I got to see live shows, I met the coolest people, and I got to travel.

Music was also a passion of mine, but not performing. I was a decent guitarist, but I played only for myself.

And speaking of my person, I'd be a dirty, sweaty mess by the time I was done here. Given how late that would be, I'd have to take the shortest shower in history before making my way to the club.

Throwing the cables into a box, I started packing up the instruments when I spotted Holloway, Wayward Lane's guitarist, Ronin, the bass player, and Faise, the drummer, in the wings, cooling down. The guys in the band always stayed and chatted with the crew before their press run and the fan meet and greet.

And, of course, they were surrounded by security personnel, the team of bodyguards that followed them everywhere. The more popular the band became, the bigger the entourage. Regan, the head of security, and two of her team, Dawson and Lennie, were on stage, keeping a close eye on the guys.

Holloway gave Ronin and Faise a hug and then made his way offstage, Dawson trailing after him.

"I'm going to take a piss. Do you need to watch that too?" Holloway snapped.

Dawson rolled his eyes and followed the guitarist. I bit back a laugh. What happened offstage with these guys was just as entertaining as their shows.

I picked up Holloway's Gibson electric, a custom teal with black trim, and carefully placed it in the velvet-lined case. The bass guitars came next, then the mics. Just like before a show, I verified each piece, logged it in my tablet, and motioned for the rest of the crew to start loading it up on our trucks.

Once that was sorted, I moved on to the drums, the most time-consuming of all the instruments given so many moving parts. I was halfway through disassembling the kit when I spotted Ace heading towards me.

"What did you think of the show?" he asked. "I was worried the power might go out like it did during soundcheck. This old place is beautiful, but it wasn't built for amps and pyro."

"No kidding. But everything worked out great. Brodie's voice was mind-blowing with the acoustics in here. And the opening band, Killmine?" I whistled. "Fuck, Nate Filier's voice is pure sex."

"Don't let Brodie hear you say that," Ace warned with a grin.

I chuckled in response, thinking about the rockstars I worked with—and their egos. "No shit. But come on, you heard it."

Ace nodded and ran a hand through his long, blond hair. "I did. Nate's got a great baritone, deep and strong. It doesn't have that raspy undertone like Brodie's, but it's still phenomenal. He's got good stage presence, too."

Good? Try hot as hell. The lead singer of Killmine was one of the sexiest men I'd ever seen—on or off stage—and I'd seen a lot of performers. With shaggy chestnut curls, a lithe frame, and lush lips, Nate had my dirty imagination running overtime.

"Brodie said you were coming out to the club with the rest of the crew. Did I hear that right?"

Ace tended to keep himself to himself. He was friendly, but kinda shy in his own way. At least, until he had a few drinks. But I'd seen him party as hard as the rockstars we worked for.

Ace shrugged. "Maybe. But I think I'm getting too old for that shit."

"Old? You're thirty-eight? Come on," I encouraged. "It's gonna be great."

Ace's phone buzzed. "I gotta head downstairs. I'll leave you to it."

I nodded and swiped a hand through my spiky hair. Unlike most of the crew, I kept mine short, buzzed on the sides. No sense hiding the Celtic tattoos that snaked up my neck. I'd paid damn good money for them.

Three hours—and one temporary power outage—later, and most of the gear was locked and loaded. But unfortunately, two of our crew were sick, puking their guts out backstage. I didn't ask why, and I didn't want to know. Some roadies partied more than they worked, so I'd have to keep a close eye. Thank fuck we had until the following day to clear out, even though we always did our best to get shit moved out as soon as possible.

Tommy: Two of our crew are sick and headed back to the hotel. We're gonna need to finish up tomorrow.

Ace: I'll text the venue manager. I'm still downstairs. Be up in a minute.

Taking a quick break, I checked out socials, curious about the fans' reaction to the concert. There were a shit ton of comments about Wayward Lane, of course. Their fans were rabid. And there were also quite a few posts about Killmine. They were a popular local band, but I had a feeling not for much longer. They had a unique sound and a stellar singer. Big things were coming their way.

"Sorry," Ace announced as he stepped out on stage. "I was…uh…I got into a discussion with someone, and I lost track of time."

"No worries."

"Venue manager confirmed we have until EOD tomorrow to finish loading, so we're good to knock off for the night."

"Cool."

A half-hour later, we headed out. Ace and I signed off on the trucks that were full and hopped in a rideshare to head back to the hotel.

It took me ten minutes to shower and change. Slipping into my best jeans, boots, and a plaid shirt, I took one last look in the mirror. I left the top buttons of the shirt open and rolled up the sleeves, then grabbed a bottle of styling crème and ran it through my short strands.

Ace and I met in the lobby, where we got an escort from Lennie.

We arrived at the club a short while later and were ushered inside via the rear entrance. The venue was two stories, with a gothic vibe and pulse-pounding music that made for the sexiest kind of atmosphere.

As we moved through the packed crowd to the VIP area, I spotted the boys of Wayward Lane. Holloway had several beautiful men flirting with him. Brodie looked to be in a heated discussion with Van; no surprises there. Faise and Ronin, who were not only bandmates but best friends, were standing nearby, Ronin's arm around Faise's shoulders. Bodyguards were on duty while ardent admirers came and went, chatting up the guys and then moving on to the bar or the dance floor.

The guys waved us over, and a server appeared with trays of tequila shots. More VIP guests crowded around the band.

Everyone grabbed two glasses, and I gratefully accepted mine.

I was more than ready to down both when a sudden, deep voice startled me.

"Can I have one of those, cher ?"

I turned to find none other than Nate Filier standing behind me. The lead singer whose husky voice was still echoing in my ear. He'd changed out of his Halloween costume and into a sinful pair of burgundy leather pants and a sheer black top, his only accessory the slick gloss on those sexy lips of his. Lips that were curved in a flirty grin. I glanced around, surprised that, yes, Nate was talking to me.

When I finally made eye contact, there was no mistaking the heated interest in those deep-set blue eyes of his. My pulse pounded fierce and hot, my dick starting to fill.

Fuck me.

Exactly. This was just what I needed.

"To New Orleans, and our best fucking show ever!" Brodie yelled out.

Other people around me cheered and shouted, but I wasn't paying attention.

Without saying a word, I passed one of my shots to Nate, our fingers brushing, electricity shooting down my arm. I downed my drink, placed the empty glass on the bar top, and headed for the dance floor.

I hoped like hell that Nate would follow.