Dangerous Hearts: Rock Star Romance, 1 (Lyric & Wolf) (3 page)

Lyric

Yes. My name is Lyric. As in song lyrics
that played during my conception. Because my parents are—
were—
rock stars. I’m not complaining. I’ll take
Lyric
over any of the other asinine
possibilities they came up with back then. One fallback: it’s not a name that
goes unnoticed. Ever. I’m known as Lyric Cassidy, daughter of a rock icon and a
pop goddess who had a swift affair in the nineties. Although my parents were
never married and broke up years ago, they are still one of the most popular
couples to have paved their way through music history. It makes my passion for
the music
industry .
 . . complicated.

Let me rephrase that.

My fate in the music industry is sealed.
Nothing about that is complicated—therein lies the problem. Music is my
everything. It’s the air I breathe. The beat I walk to. The blood in my veins.
It’s what lulls me to sleep at night. What carries me through the storms of my
life . . . like the one that just passed. Except I’m not a musician myself. Not
professionally, anyway. I just want to be surrounded by music, however and
whenever possible. But the limelight? Well, that’s not for me.

It was always a given I’d fall for a rock
star. The bad-boy type with the raspy vocal who could cause a sold-out arena to
swoon. I did. I fell for him, and he broke my heart when he fell into bed with
my best friend. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. It wasn’t to anyone else.
Unfortunately, at the time, I didn’t know the importance of shielding my heart
as if my life depended on it. I know now. The affair that left me jobless, and
with a gaping hole in my heart aching to be filled, was indeed filled with
music. And then my heart was sealed, wrapped up in several layers of guitar
strings, never to be infiltrated again. Have you ever tried flicking a guitar
string? Those fuckers are strong.

The touring company I work for was made
aware of my situation before I told them I wanted a new assignment. They had
something ready for me out of pure coincidence, I’m sure. The job was mine if I
wanted it, and I didn’t hesitate for a second. It wasn’t until they sent the
contract over and I saw who I would be working for that I thought to rescind my
acceptance. In the end, I signed, desperate to leave my situation in Seattle.
And just like that, the job was mine, no interview needed.

I’ve never been on an interview. Not for
a lack of trying. Jobs get handed to me as if there’s a payoff somewhere out
there. It’s possible there
is
a
payoff, but I’ll never know for sure. I wouldn’t put it past my mother. Ever
since her music career slowed down, she’s tried everything to crawl back into
my life as if she can control my fate. As if she knows me at all. I haven’t
seen Destiny Lane in years. Spoken to her, yes, but as infrequently as
possible. I don’t want anything she has to offer. She had her chance to be a
mother when it mattered, but her music career always came first. My father,
Mitch Cassidy, on the other hand—he’s still got it. Still hot on the music
scene. Still touring internationally. Still pressuring me to “use my gifts,” as
he calls them.

Not going to happen.

Less than an hour ago, my plane landed in
San Diego. Now my driver, Elmer—like the glue—is waiting for me at the curb to
take my bags. I take the bottled water from the holder and guzzle down half of
it before finally relaxing into my seat.

“Are we headed to the office or the
hotel?” I ask.

Between the flurry of activity since the
moment I signed the contract and making a valiant effort to stay off social
media, I’ve had no time to think straight.

Elmer’s eyes flicker to mine in the
rearview mirror. He must deal with uppity celebs all day because he looks
surprised I’m acknowledging his existence. “The office for your two o’clock, Miss
Cassidy.”

“Thank you, Elmer.”

His eyes return to the road, and I turn
my head toward the window. The always-present flutter of tension expands and
contracts in my chest, awkwardly tormenting me. Formalities are not my thing,
though I always seem to be surrounded by them. It’s the air of my parents that
never seems to leave me; others think they need to treat me delicately, as if
I’m precious glass. It’s annoying, but I’ve given up correcting people to
salvage whatever is left of my sanity.

We approach the all-brick exterior of
Perform Live, the artist management company where I’ve worked since I started
as assistant to the assistant office manager when I was fifteen years old. The
moment I turned eighteen, the management team sent me to work in their Seattle
office. From there, they started sending me out on tour to manage the
merchandise. I got quite good with money and worked closely with the tour
managers and road managers for years. Now I do what they do. And I’m damn good
at it.

My new position is road manager for Wolf
Chapman, rock’s ultimate bad boy and hottest solo act out there at the moment.
I’ve seen his type before. Drugs. Sex. Rock ’n’ roll. It’s not just a saying.
It’s a way of life, and it’s real. He won’t last. He got too hot too soon, which,
in my experience, only means he’ll fall hard when he stumbles. Chances are he
won’t get up, at least not back up to the top of the charts where he currently
stands. I take this as a challenge—I love a good challenge. So I’m just here to
do my job, even though everything about Wolf screams for me to run.

Talent.

Sex appeal.

Rocker hair.

Drop dead gorgeous smile.

Body of a seasoned athlete.

Abs made of steel.

Totally not my type. At least it
shouldn’t be. And all of that comes in one pretty little package signed “Ego.”
The last thing I need is to be in the presence of another rock star with a
massive hard-on for himself.

As I walk through the company’s main
doors and toward the elevator, a familiar feeling of excitement begins to
bubble up in my chest. “Lyric, is that you?” A tan blonde with long legs and a
Wolf shirt tucked into her knee length skirt enters through the opposite
entrance and beelines it toward me.

How
do I know this chick?

She’s inches from my face when it dawns
on me. I smirk before throwing my hands out in surprise. “Terese. No shit. You
work here?” We do the girlie thing and squeal, hug, and rock from side-to-side
before letting each other go.

I know Terese from when Tony, my asshole
ex, booked a three-month run in the Vegas hotel where she worked. We spent all
our free time together because
the ex
,
of course, was too busy to spend time with me.

“I do,” she says. “Moved from Vegas last
April and haven’t looked back. Please tell me you’ll be in promotions with me.
Can you imagine how much fun we’ll have?”

I shake my head, still beaming. “Road
manager for Wolf.”

Her eyes are bright blue and sparkling
from the stream of sunlight, and they widen in surprise. “Oh, now I’m jealous.
What I would give to be on that tour
bus .
 . .”
A sigh wafts into the air as she trails off into dream land.

I roll my eyes quickly so she can’t see
the annoyance and shrug. “Well, I doubt I’ll be on
his
tour bus, but the tour should be fun. We’ve got a show in San
Diego before we leave. You working that one? If not, you should hang with me.”

Terese lights up again. “I’m not working
that night. Count me in. How long until you take off?”

Without the schedule in front of me it’s
hard to remember the details, but I have an idea. “Two weeks. I’m joining the
team late. I guess the last manager didn’t mesh well with Wolf.”

She winks at me. “I’m sure you won’t have
that same problem.” There’s a flicker of something in her eyes, and I know
she’s about to ask the dreaded question. Then she surprises me. “I always hated
Tony. I’m glad you two broke up. He’s an ass for what he did, but it’s for the
best.”

I like Terese a whole lot right about
now, but I don’t have time to respond. The ding of the elevator reminds me I’m
headed for a meeting with the rock god himself. “I need to get going. I’ll call
you this week, okay? We can do dinner.”

I practically run the few steps to the
elevator and smash my finger on the button, trying to catch the closing door.
Score.
It opens, and when I enter, I
immediately regret rushing as I stumble into the nearest figure. My hands reach
out to catch my fall. “I’m so sorry,” I say, not sure who to speak to. The
space is filled with leather jackets, heavy cologne, a faint hint of
alcohol .
 . . and testosterone. Lots of that.

And then my eyes land on
him
. All six feet of lean muscle, tan
skin, and caramel eyes. Wolf is standing directly in front of me, a smirk on
his face as he looks at my hands on his chest.
Shit.

Someone in the background mumbles with an
indiscernible accent, “No worries, love,” but it doesn’t sound sincere, and no
one else speaks, making the moment more awkward than it was before.

I remove my burning hands with a shake and
turn to face the closing door, hoping to hide the heat rushing up my neck. It’s
strange how the presence of a rock star changes the energy in a room. What was
once stale, boring air is now electrified and magnetic. I want to face him again
to get a good look at him.

Spinning toward him, I plant a smile on
my face and meet his stare. “Mr. Wolf, I should introduce myself. I’m Lyric
Cassidy, road manager for your upcoming tour.”

His smirk has faded, and a crease now
appears between his eyes. His reaction is confusing since the unappealing
wrinkle is all I get. It seems to be a power move. I’ve seen Wolf a million
times in magazines, on TV, on billboards, and T-shirts everywhere. Hell, I’ve
spent my life surrounded by rock stars. If this guy thinks he’s going to
intimidate me, he’s wrong.
Very wrong.

“Nice to meet
you .
 . .
Lyric
.” He releases my name with a
flick of his tongue. My eyes are on his mouth now. Such a beautiful mouth.
Slightly parted and lifted at the corners. Just enough to know he’s enjoying
himself.

I steal a glimpse of the tongue that just
held my name. It’s gliding across his teeth in one slow sweep. As my eyes track
the movement, I have to swallow against the roll of my stomach.
Holy hell.

That's all it takes for me to know I’m in
a knee-deep shit-pile of trouble. His voice is low and raspy, too. It’s a tone
that strikes me below the waist and reverberates with every syllable spoken.

I look around at the chuckling
bystanders, who are obviously amused by our exchange. I’m assuming the
entourage surrounding Wolf includes his band and manager. They’ve surely seen
the way women react to him, and they think I’m one of them. I can’t wait to
prove them wrong.

My eyes move back to the man with the
accent. He wears a suit jacket and jeans, ready for business. “You must be
Lionel.”

His eyes light up with mischief and a
hint of annoyance. “You would be correct.” His accent is thick. British. Or
Australian. I can never tell the difference.

I don’t think he’s my biggest fan. It
doesn’t surprise me being that I’m a female in a typically male role. Now I
just want to irritate him.

“Should I call you Lion for short? Or are
animal names reserved for your boss here?”

I smile at my own joke as laughter erupts
from the people all around—except for the one who stands before me. Peering up
at Wolf curiously, I’m surprised to see a smile slowly forming on his lips. “He
goes by Crawley. No nicknames needed,” Wolf’s penetrating voice responds.

All right. So the rock god can take a
joke. That’s good.

By the time we’ve made it to the top
floor, I’ve concluded that Lionel Crawley, the band's manager, is British, and
I’ve introduced myself to the entire band, too. I almost forgot their keyboard
player was a girl. A girl who is into same-sex offerings only. At least that’s
what I’ve heard.

We exit the elevator into the lobby of
the executive floor, which hasn’t changed much since I was last here. The walls
are bright red with orange accents and black trim. The Perform Live logo, 3-D
against the back wall of the room, screams importance.