Head-Tripped: A Sexy Rock Star Romance (Ad Agency Series Book 2) Read online

  “I’m not in the mood to deal with the paparazzi tonight,” Elias said. Or parties. Or people. Or small talk. His ideal night out was staying in. Otherwise, photographers circled him like vultures, just waiting for him to make an asshole out of himself. The minute he stepped outside, another headline made the news.

  EL LOVE LOVES FAST FOOD

  That story pissed him off more than it should have. After spending much of his life broke as hell, fast food had become a symbol of his poverty. McDonald’s, peanut butter, and especially ramen noodles were high on his list of things never to eat again.

  EL LOVE WINS WORST DRESSED

  He made that list after someone took a picture of him taking out the trash in a pair of sweat pants.

  Hot Gay Celebrities

  Cato Lawson, his closeted bassist, made the list after he was caught outside a gay bar in Los Angeles. His face was partially hidden in the photo, so the label claimed it was a case of mistaken identity.

  EL LOVE LOSES LOVE

  That headline became a top Google search hit after a one-night stand faked a pregnancy. It cost him almost a million dollars in legal fees just to shut her up. No one cared whether she’d lied, he was still made out to be the bad guy.

  Step into the spotlight and your private life no longer exists. Which is why he had no desire to go out in public.

  “It’s an ad show, not the GRAMMY’s,” his friend said. “I’ll tell everyone you’re my jobless roommate. No one will know you’re a famous rock star.”

  “Don’t call me rock star. I hate that.”

  “Babes aplenty will be there.” St. James bounced his brows. “Lots of sexy song inspiration.”

  Since screwing someone required a signed legal release now, women were a pain-in-the-ass Elias didn’t need. “Think I’m just gonna stick around here and try to hash out some songs.”

  “Whatever.” His roommate strode toward the door. “You’re going. Now go pick out something sexy for the party tonight, rock star.”

  He tossed the soccer ball at his head. “Gil, don’t call me rock star!”

  St. James ducked and shot him the finger.

  For the rest of the day, until St. James forced him out that evening, Elias lay on the studio floor, staring up at the ceiling, wondering what his new career flipping burgers would be like.

  Total Music Magazine

  URBAN’S UPCOMING EUROPEAN TOUR: A BAD TRIP

  By Len Neal, Editor

  Six years ago, I saw El Love and his band, Urban, play in a small Manhattan venue. He was everything you could ever want in a front man. It was a beautiful thing to watch—the way he strutted up on stage like he had the biggest pair of cojónes in the biz. And after the show, he left the stage flanked by two adoring female fans. El Love was the epitome of a rock star.

  And his songs were just as cool. His mind-melting music, perfectly layered with the pumping beats and hard-driving angst. Generational theme songs they were, the kind of music that never dies.

  Back in the day, I’d drive my girlfriend to the edge of a cliff somewhere and play Urban’s entire catalogue. Everyone knows their music is best enjoyed with a blow job in a beautiful setting.

  Unfortunately, fame and fortune has since spanked Urban’s booty, with scandal after scandal plaguing the band this year. At times, I felt like I was reporting on a pop teen idol gone bad, instead of the coolest f*cking band that ever walked this earth.

  Their partnership with Heart Records may have made them the highest grossing act of all time, but it also watered down Urban’s vibe to appeal to the masses, including my ninety-year-old grandmother. And I’ve got news for you, that sound is as worn out as her house slippers.

  It’s been a year-and-a-half since they released an album, and their songs have been playing on repeat at my neighborhood Whole Foods that entire time. I can barely stand to buy my almond milk anymore.

  With nothing new on the horizon, Urban’s fans will be paying 150 Euros a pop to watch the demise of a great band. And I, for one, will shed many a man-tear when it happens.

  3

  Tremolo

  “‘Curiouser and curiouser!’ cried Alice.”

  Soundtrack “Shoo-B-Doop and Cop Him,” Betty Davis

  “Are we at a funeral?” Effie asked Skip at the awards ceremony. “Why is everyone wearing black?”

  Skip threw a burning glare her way. “Do not ask me fucked-up questions right now. In fact, don’t talk at all. Just blend in. Act normal.”

  She took in the crowd’s so-called normality. How did one blend in with this primitive tribe of Manhattan hipsters without a socially acceptable drink in her hand?

  Her scalp itched, and her feet hurt, and life sucked, and boy, wouldn’t a buzz be nice? Except, alcohol was never her thing. The giddy clarity, zippy bolt of energy, and blissful numbness of cocaine was what she craved.

  Skip slapped a few backs and laughed a few fake laughs, then dragged her to the auditorium. Bloated yellow flower arrangements adorned every table and gold stars dangled from the ceiling. Was this the Oscars or an ad show?

  Did anyone even watch commercials anymore? She didn’t even own a TV. Or furniture. Or a computer. Or anything except an expensive violin. But that was beside the point.

  A few of Skip’s employees were already seated at the table. Skip directed her to her chair. “Sit. Don’t move. I need to schmooze. Don’t say a word.”

  While he fake-laughed his way around the auditorium, a blonde woman with oversized lips struck up a conversation in a foreign hipster language.

  Only twenty-eight and Effie could barely understand what these youngsters were saying. For example, Blondie kept asking her where “Walkie” was.

  Effie winced and shrugged.

  Blondie hiked up a lip. “Like, is he, like hardcore missing the NYC?”

  On occasion, Effie’s supernatural hearing made up for what she lacked in social skills—according to her sister, anyway. She could detect even the minutest change in pitch, which made her a master at gauging emotion. But in this case, she had no clue what this woman was talking about. None whatsoever.

  Rather than pretend to comprehend her foreign tongue, she searched the crowd for that bastard, Skip. She glanced over her shoulder and spotted two hot guys near the entrance. One guy was bearded and tatted, and far too hip for her. The other guy though . . .

  Her heart stopped beating for a second as the perfect male specimen strutted down the aisle in slow motion, all smooth and confident, like sex on legs.

  She may or may not have let out an orgasmic moan.

  The universe had molded a man to her exact standards. His dark wavy hair fell just above his broad shoulders. And his skin—the color of a warm sugar cookie—hinted at an exotic ancestry. South American perhaps? Latino for sure. Ay, chihuahua.

  Even his attire made her want to weep like a child—vintage brown leather jacket, dark denim jeans, and retro-mirrored shades.

  And he was headed her way! And he was sitting right next to her!

  A halo of heat blazed out from his body and zapped her skin. She suppressed a whimper and smelled him instead. Mmm. Fresh and clean. Like holy water and soap.

  Would he notice if she hopped up on his lap?

  She pressed her bare thigh against his jean-clad leg.

  He glanced down then up at her. The corner of his mouth ticked up.

  That time she moaned.

  The corner ticked up a little higher.

  Say something! Ask for my number. Lick me. What was the perfect conversational opener? Something subtly flirtatious? Something like, want to touch my vagina later? Or, I’m a thousand percent available? Or, I’ll hike up my skirt if you take off your pants?

  Or, how about this: “Hi.”

  “Hi,” he said. One word. One velvety deep word with the slightest foreign accent.

  “Hi,” she said again.

  His smile said, “Get in my lap,” but his mouth said nothing.

  Geez Louise. That’s it. Screw viol
in. She was going into advertising.

  Her sister’s fiancé was hot as hell, but this guy? Jesus, Callie must have spent all of her free time masturbating at her desk.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  He bumped his shoulder against hers. “Elias.”

  “I’m Effie. Oh, wait, no. Shit. I’m Callie.” She smacked her forehead.

  The bearded guy next to him leaned back. “What up, Murph? Didn’t think I’d see you here tonight.”

  Skip showed up right then and did some sort of man-shake with the Beard. “Eli St. James. Thought you’d be at a gig tonight.” Skip’s stoned greeting spanned a few moments longer then he sat next to Effie.

  She leaned over and whispered to him, “Leave me alone again and I’ll tell everyone about that time you dated Vanilla Ice’s mom.”

  He sliced a finger through the air. “I went out for sushi, that’s all.”

  “That’s not what I heard.”

  Before he could respond, a brown-haired, buxom woman interrupted.

  “Callie? What are you doing here? I just talked to Walker . . . Wait a minute.” The woman tilted her head and eyed Effie with ample suspicion. “You’re not Callie.”

  Skip air-pinched the woman’s lips together. “Sit down and shut it, Avery.”

  The Avery woman glared at Skip and shook her head. “You didn’t.”

  Skip grabbed a glass of wine off a waiter’s tray and downed it. “Listen up, team.” He gestured them in for a huddle. “This is Callie’s twin sister, Effie. You can call her F-bomb.”

  “No they can’t.”

  He ignored her. “She’s accepting the award for her lust-crazed sister who ran off with my creative director.” He sat back and straightened his tie. “Anywho, tell anyone and you’re fired.”

  “Are you insane?” Avery said.

  “This award means new clients, Miss Adams. And that means I can hire more people so I don’t have to keep riding your postpartum ass. So, zip-the-fuck it.” He violently closed a pretend zipper on his mouth about twenty times.

  Avery gave him a withering look. “You are the worst boss.” She waved at Effie. “Hi, I’m Avery. I was sick as a dog and had to give up my place on the RoadStream tour. That’s how your sister and Walker met.”

  Effie jumped up and hugged her. “You changed my sister’s life.”

  Avery laughed and gave her a warm hug back. “You’re not like your sister, are you?”

  “Totally different,” Effie said and sat back down.

  Blondie snapped her gum. “How did Avery’s barfing change Callie’s life?”

  Skip turned to her. “Sabrina, when they were handing out brains, were you shopping for shoes?”

  Of course! Blondie was Account Manager Barbie—the woman who’d been a constant pain in her sister’s ass. “Oh, I get it now.” Effie smacked her forehead again. “That’s what you meant earlier. You kept saying Walkie. But you meant Walk-er.”

  The bearded guy scoffed. “That’s all she does. Talk about Walkie this and Walkie that.”

  A dramatic silence passed between Barbie and the Beard.

  Effie leaned over to Skip. “Does everyone at your agency screw each other? If so, sign me up to sleep with Elvis.” She flicked a look at the man-meat on her left.

  “That guy doesn’t work for me. Hey, St. James,” Skip yelled. “Who’s your date?”

  “My jobless roommate,” St. James said, grinning sideways. “He’s just here for the free appetizers.”

  Skip rubbed his chin. “He looks familiar. Have we met before?”

  Elvis shook his head once and squirmed a little in his seat.

  “Huh,” Skip eyed him for a few seconds longer.

  The waiter came by and poured more wine.

  “No thanks.” She blocked her cup.

  Elvis denied the wine as well.

  “You don’t drink?” she asked him.

  “No.”

  “Ever?”

  His brows lowered under the rims of his shades. “You’re not going to put that on Facebook, are you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Never mind.”

  She scooted her chair closer to him. “So what kind of work are you looking for, Elvis?”

  His mouth opened then quickly shut. Not a good sign. He probably worked in some shady field, like the stock market. Figures. No one could be that delectable and have a non-shady job.

  Shrill music blasted out, and soon after, commercials flashed on the big screen. She yawned and sank down in her chair.

  “Sleepy?” Elvis asked

  Oh, boy, he was talking to her again. “Bored. You?”

  He tweaked his right cheek in facial agreement.

  Subtle. She liked that. No obnoxious blather from him. Quiet mouth. Loud body. Could this guy be any more perfect?

  She regarded her reflection in his mirrored sunglasses. Was that her? Was she smiling? How weird. “I wish I could see your eyes.”

  His glasses slid down and revealed a pair of light coppery-brownish-green eyes.

  “Wow, I love you,” she said. Oh shit, did she just say she loved him? She puffed out a laugh. “You didn’t hear that, did you?”

  He shot her a big grin. “That you love me?”

  “No, no.” She waved a finger. “I love ewes, not you. As in female sheep.”

  So much for her first attempt at flirting. It was fun while it lasted. She didn’t even bother to glance at him again. He was probably checking the exit doors for the nearest escape.

  “F-bomb.” Skip pulled out her chair. “That’s us.” He hooked her elbow and put on a weird smile.

  She tripped her way down the aisle to the podium.

  “Thank me, the agency, and the committee,” he said through his weird smile, “and that’s it. Got it?”

  “I can’t walk in these things.” She kicked off her heels.

  Skip’s weird smile wilted. “Tell me you did not just take off your shoes in the middle of an award show.”

  They clambered up on stage. “New plan,” he stage-whispered. “Take the award and leave. That’s it. Nothing else. I’ll do the talking.”

  “I know. I know.”

  The sharp corners of Skip’s Nordic cheekbones tightened. “Do not screw this up, F-bomb.”

  “I’ve got this.”

  Someone handed her a . . . golden pencil. “Seriously?” she said into the microphone. “A pencil? What happened to cold, hard cash for a prize?” She rubbed her fingers together and laughed heartily. Screeching feedback blasted out of the microphone. “Oh shit. Sorry.” More feedback.

  Skip pinched her thigh.

  “Ow! Right! Okay, I’ve always wanted a big gold pencil.”

  Skip jabbed her in the side.

  Effie stifled a yelp. “Thanks to my wonderful boss, Skip”—she stomped on his foot—“for sending me on the trip of a lifetime.” Literally. Her sister hated that word, but literally, she wouldn’t be alive without Skip. She leaned closer to the microphone. “Skip introduced me to my hot fiancé—”

  Skip ripped the microphone away. “Thanks Eff, er, Callie. Our agency is incredibly lucky to have the most talented staff in the country. Thanks to everyone who voted for us. We’re honored to be here.” He blew a kiss at the audience then quickly escorted her off the stage, out through the back door.

  Out in the hallway, he clasped his hands behind his neck and bent over.

  She rubbed his back. “It’s okay, buddy, you’re fine. Take a deep breath.”

  He straightened. “Yeah, you’re right. Speaking of deep breaths—” He patted down his pocket and pulled out a mini vaporizer. “I’m gonna hit the john.” He pushed open the bathroom door and stabbed a finger at her. “Stay here. Do not move. I mean it.”

  Ugh, the wig was driving her crazy. It was probably all cock-eyed. She barged into the ladies’ room and found Avery on the floor with a machine stuck to her boobs.

  “Eeesh,” Effie said. “Does that hurt? Looks like a torture de
vice.”

  Avery sniffled. “It is.”

  “Hey, are you okay?”

  “No.” She sobbed a little. “I’m exhausted. My baby is with a sitter who’s probably a pedophile. I can barely pump enough milk to feed him, and this is the only moment I’ve had to myself in three months.”

  Effie turned to leave. “I’ll give you some privacy.”

  “No, stay. I don’t get to talk to adults very often. How’s Walker? I miss him.”

  “He’s good. He’s great. I think. I don’t talk to him very much.”

  Avery smiled. “I’m so happy for him.” Then she began to wail. “I’ll never know what that’s like. To fall in love.”

  Effie yanked out dry paper towels from the machine and dabbed her face. “Your baby loves you. What’s his name?”

  “Austin.”

  “That’s nice. Does he look like you?”

  “I don’t know. Besides the sitter, I’m the only one who’s seen him.” Her shoulders shook. The machine gurgled and started pumping again. “You’re so much nicer than your sister.” Avery smacked her head back against the wall. “I’m sorry. That was rude. I’m sleep deprived.”

  “No worries. I’ll let you get back to . . .” she nodded down at her boobs.

  “Tearing off my nipples?”

  She grimaced “Yeah, that.”

  After Effie checked her wig, she hurried out of the bathroom and ran smack into . . .

  “Daniel.”

  Her sister’s ex pushed out an evil smile. “Hello, Callie. I see you’ve changed your hair.”

  “Fuck you very much, Daniel.” She turned to the woman next to him. “I see you’ve got the backstabber with you. How’s this abusive asshole treating you, Hillary? Having fun fucking my ex?”

  “Oh, I’ve been having fun fucking him for the last three years,” Hillary said with a cute laugh.

  Effie cocked back her fist and rammed it into Hillary’s face. And since that wasn’t nearly satisfying enough, she grabbed Daniel by the tie and kneed him in the crotch.