Page 2 of Madden

“I mean, they have private security at the gate, and they did let us in? I’d assume they knew we were here.” He huffs.

“No frickin’ kidding.” With a sigh, I reach across him and punch my finger against the doorbell again.

We wait another moment before we see a figure through the glass door. I can’t quite make out the person; all I can see is a fury of purple rushing toward us.

The lock clicks, and the door swings open, and a woman who, from my research, is Kyla greets us. She’s dating Tysin, their lead guitarist, and is the sister of their drummer, Madden.

We’ve been in touch through email over the past week, finalizing the last-minute details for their interview today.

“I’m so sorry to keep you waiting. I’m Kyla, the band’s manager. Forgive me; I thought Madden was going to grab the door. It must’ve been a misunderstanding.” She presses her lips together in a forced smile. She folds her hand against her heaving chest, out of breath as if she ran a mile to answer the door.

“The guys should be here any moment. They just wrapped up practice about an hour ago and were getting cleaned up.”

She steps back, letting us in.

“Can I get you a drink?” she offers, holding her arm out to lead us inside.

“I wouldn’t mind a water,” Davis says, smiling.

“I’ll have one too,” I add.

“Great, I’ll grab those for you. We thought we could do the interview over here in the sitting area. Madden displays their awards and mementos from over the years in there.”

My heels click on the tile floors as we follow her into a room with a large sofa and two sitting chairs. The stone-blue walls have plaques, pictures, and awards covering nearly every surface.

“This works perfectly. I’ll head back out to grab the rest of our equipment, and we’ll get everything set up while we wait.”

Kyla scurries off, and I turn back to Davis. He shrugs and shakes his head.

“If you want to figure out a setup, I’ll get our stuff. You good?”

I nod, waving him off, and he disappears out the door.

Setting my bag down on one of the chairs, I look at all their achievements hanging on the wall.

Over the years, I’ve covered A Rebels Havoc, so I’ve heard the rumors swirling around in the media about them. They’ve had everything from drinking and partying too much to fights and rumored pregnancies splashed all over the headlines.

Their record label knew what they were doing by setting up this interview. They have a new album coming out in a few weeks, and even though there’s no such thing as bad press, I’m sure this is their way of trying to smooth over their image.

Despite this being an incredible opportunity for me, I’m not exactly excited about sitting down and talking with them. They seem like nothing but a bunch of punks who only care about drinking and getting laid.

I brush my finger over the frame holding the multiplatinum disc from their breakout album. Not many have accomplished that incredible achievement, so it’s cool to see their award in person.

“Fuck, baby, that feels so damn good.” A loud throaty groan filters into the quiet space, and my whole body freezes. “Let me see those pretty eyes while you suck my dick.”

I gasp, my mouth dropping open before I quietly slap my hand over it to muffle the sound.

Who the hell did I just overhear?

“Fuckkk,” he moans. “Take it deep, sweetheart. Mmm, just like that.”

My face warms at the sound of his words, heat spreading over my body. His deep voice has me rubbing my legs together.

I can’t believe I’m standing here still listening, but I can’t manage to pull myself away either.

“Let me hear you, baby,” he mutters.

I finally force my feet to move, turning to glance out the large bay window overlooking the driveway. Davis still has the back of the SUV open, shuffling around to collect our equipment.

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