Page 70 of Rocked: The Price of Dreams

I had to keep pinching myself to make sure I was awake.

For our first album, we took to the road for a mini tour across the US. We walked red carpets and attended awards shows and played in front of huge crowds. After every performance came the wicked parties. A lifestyle beyond my wildest imagination was thrust in our faces—money, designer clothes, fancy hotels, exclusive invitations. The three of us were swept up in and seduced by the craze. The hype. The adoration. How could we not? We wanted to savor and experience everything on offer.

The highs kept on coming.

We won a Grammy.

Fuck yeah! A fucking Grammy!

After the success of the first album, SureHaven wanted to sign us for four more albums. Four! They wanted us to tour the globe, go next level. It was too good to be true. We’d never achieve such success this quickly on our own. We were dazzled by everything they offered. But even with Richard, our lawyer, digging at every angle, we couldn’t get more than three of our original songs on each album.

It sucked. But we couldn’t refuse the deal.

We signed on the dotted line.

Four albums. Six years. That time would fly. We could do it.

SureHaven spared no expense, propelling us into glamorous makeovers, media training, designer gear, photoshoots, and public appearances. They threw every resource at us to perfect our singing and performance skills.

We thrived on it.

With our second album cut, singles released, and promo done, we hit rehearsals for our first world tour. During fittings for outfits at every high-end designer boutique across New York, we met Kara at Conrad’s Fashion House. I’d found a true kindred spirit. Another incredible friend. We connected over our love of fashion and ambition, and our quick-witted banter with the guys. But boy, she didn’t like Hunter. I loved that she never fell for his good looks and charm. She was clearly smitten with her boyfriend, Conrad.

We hit our first world tour early in the new year. But as fatigue took its toll, we fell into a haze of sex, drugs, and alcohol. SureHaven fed our addiction, giving us whatever we wanted as long as we performed each night and kept making them millions.

In this new world, the three of us had grown closer, stronger, more reliant on each other than ever before. We were afraid the bubble would burst, and we’d end up back in Montgomery. We treasured every moment and never took anything for granted.

But not all went well.

On the last night of tour in London, tragedy struck. We were high on cocaine, dancing around with groupies and fans at our hotel, when Hunter tripped, fell backward, and crashed through a glass window onto the balcony.

I’d never seen so much blood in my life. His arm took the brunt of the fall. The glass sliced his flesh into strips that dangled loose between his wrist and elbow. It was totally gross and horrific. Instantly sober, the three of us swore never to touch drugs again.

We never did.

It took three months for Hunter’s arm to heal and six months of physical therapy, but that didn’t stop SureHaven pushing us forward.

Our third album was released seven months after we finished tour. Then something stupid happened.

Something unexpected.

I succumbed to love.

During our second world tour, Ben Newman, the drummer in our backup band, stole my heart. I tried to resist, but I was smitten from the moment he walked into the audition. People outside the music industry never understood the demands and devotion it required to play, practice, and perfect our craft. But Ben did. He was part of it. He fit into our world, my world, perfectly. He got along well with the guys even after Kyle’s initial cock-blocking in the name of concern. Win-win for everyone.

But Ben loved the limelight, sometimes too much, which pissed off Hunter. Ben interrupted interviews on the red carpet, craved the attention of the cameras, and tried to steal our thunder. Every time I told him to chill, he ignored me. But when SureHaven gave him a grilling—“Gemma’s the star, not you. Smile, nod, and keep your mouth shut,”—he pulled into line.

He was lucky they didn’t sack him.

But I should’ve known better than to fall in love.

At the end of tour, Ben and I took a quick getaway to a private resort. After a trying year, I needed to relax and recuperate. But my world shattered. Photos of me naked, fucking Ben in our private villa pool, went viral on the Internet. There was only one person outside the guys and our trusted PA, Bec, who knew where we were...Ben. After I broke down in tears, he admitted he’d tipped off the paparazzi. I’d never been so hurt, humiliated, and betrayed in my life. I’d never forgive him. My personal life was private. No one should have broken my trust or my heart. And he’d done both. I kicked him out of the resort's villa right then and there.

I now knew how Kyle had felt when he’d broken up with girlfriends in the past. Heartbreak sucked. I hated love with a new passion. In a mess, I called the guys. I didn’t want them to, but they insisted on cutting their vacations short and met me at home. We drank. I cried. I held onto them like I never wanted to let them go. Fuck! Why couldn’t all men be as awesome as those two guys?

I’d never fall for someone ever again. Fuck love.

That summer after tour, we found balance. We hung out with our friends, went to events, and prepared for our next album. We’d adjusted to our new lifestyle and fame.

---