Page 1 of Don't Fall For A Rockstar

CHAPTER 1

TOMMY

ORPHEUS THEATRE, NOLA, HALLOWEEN

“Hey, 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 Iwas a naïve 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 movingparts. 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.”

---