Rock Your Heart Out (Sinful Serenade #3) (9 page)

There are a dozen other people in the garden, but there's no one within twenty feet of us.

A poster on stage announces a Shakespeare in the Park showing of
A Midsummer Night's Dream
in three weeks.

What was it Tom did yesterday, when I was obviously about to lose it? He changed the subject and filled me with caffeine. I haven't got any coffee, so I'll have to stick with the former.

I point at the poster. "You read any Shakespeare in school?"

"Didn't really do my assignments."

"Oh."

He shifts so we're eye to eye, a knowing look on his face. "You told me a secret yesterday. Part of one. I'll tell you a secret in exchange, but you have to promise not to tell a soul."

I make the
my lips are sealed
gesture.

"I would have failed out of school if I hadn't needed to maintain my GPA."

"Were you on the water polo team or something?"

"You enjoy thinking about me wet, huh?" He smiles, a hint of sadness falling off his face.

"Dripping wet preferably," I say.

He shifts back into his good mood. Mostly. He leans closer, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

I tease back. "I was on the swim team all through high school and college."

"If you talk about how wet you were, I'll get ideas."

I clear my throat. "You promised me a secret."

"I was in the marching band."

"You were not."

He nods. "On drumline."

I stare at Tom with disbelief. He nods, still the picture of confidence.

"But you're so cool now," I say.

"Drumline is the coolest part of band. Who do you think nailed all the girls in Color Guard?"

"You?"

He nods. "And half the cheerleaders."

"Charming."

He's quiet for a moment. His eyes find mine. He stares at me, picking me apart. Or maybe he's picking himself apart. I can't place his expression.

A cloud passes over us, turning the bright light to a soft glow.

Tom moves in closer, and brings his mouth to my ear. "Thanks," he whispers.

And then he gets up, moves away, and all the pain in his eyes is gone. He's the same bouncy guy, no cracks, no signs anything has ever hurt him.

W
e arrive at the sound check just in time. Hazel is here.

She looks just like the picture on her Wikipedia page. Round glasses straight out of the 70s, loose men's clothes, short grey hair. She's shorter than all the guys in the band by at least six inches, but she commands their attention.

Talking ceases as she makes her way into the room.

"If you don't get back to making trouble, I won't have anything to photograph." She smiles, friendly but no nonsense, and looks me dead in the eyes. "You must be Willow. What was it, Willow Wayne?"

I nod.

"Let's stick with Willow. I'm Hazel Alexander." She offers her hand to shake.

I take it. "But stick with Hazel?"

She nods, releasing my hand. She looks back to the band. They're mostly shooting the shit, waiting around as roadies set up instruments. Tom and Drew take turns glancing in our direction.

Her attention turns to me. The focus in her eyes is overwhelming.

"Let's see what you've got," she says.

Here goes nothing. I pull out my cell and show off my edited portraits. Hazel stares at them intently. She looks up to me, back to the portrait, swipes to the next picture, back to me, back to the portrait.

"These are very nice, sweetheart, but that's all they are. You can make a lot of money shooting nice headshots for actors. You can travel around the country taking simple corporate headshots and make a nice living. There's no shame in a nice living." She hands back my cell phone. "But you're too young to give up on work that interests you."

I nod, soaking in her advice the best I can. The pictures are nice. Only nice. Why would Hazel Alexander want nice? She's a photography goddess.

"Don't worry, sweetheart. I was high until I was twenty-five. You're ahead of the curve. But I'll be honest. I don't do nice. I don't do comfortable. I'm more than happy to pay you to fetch my coffee and change my lenses, but I'm not going to give you feedback on any more nice pictures."

I worked hard on these pictures, spent forever editing them.

Nice
.

It's an ugly word. As good as
boring
or
bland
.

"They're good pictures, but they're empty. They don't say anything about this girl. They don't say anything about you." Her gaze shifts to the band. "You have a camera, sweetheart?"

I nod frantically, pull my camera from my bag, and hand it to Hazel.

She looks it over gently. "This will be fine for now." She points to the power button. "Mind if I play around with it?"

"Of course not." I nearly bite my tongue getting the words out. This is a million times more nerve-wracking than Tom looking at my photos. Her feedback has the power to tear me in half.

She turns on the camera and looks intently at the screen. "I'll have you do some coverage once you get settled. First few shows, stick with me, get a feel for it. Live concerts get old, but the label made me an offer I couldn't refuse."

"Is it better than nice?"

"Better enough." She smiles. "Editorial work fills my soul, but my soul doesn't sign the alimony checks I send to my ex-husband. I'll need your help on any editorial assignments I can squeeze into the tour schedule." She looks back to the camera, holding up her hand as if to say
shush
. "Now this is something." She taps the screen. "This says something."

Hazel motions
come here
. I do. She's looking at a photograph of Tom, one I took earlier today.

"Willow, sweetheart, why were you holding out on me? This is a damn fine portrait." She shuffles through a dozen photos of Tom, stops on another. "Does he interest you?"

I stare back at her. She can't be asking if he
interests
me. I clear my throat. "He asked me to help him out with his bad boy rock star image."

"Yes, he would." She looks over at Tom, makes eye contact. "He's a handful."

"Yes."

"Charming."

"Is he?"

"Funny."

"I hadn't noticed."

"Yes, you had." She shuffles through the pictures until she finds one from the restaurant where Tom is mid joke and full of life. "The evidence speaks for itself."

She scans further back. Oh, God. All the way to the pictures I took in his hotel room.

"My." Hazel looks up at me. "Willow, sweetheart. You lied just a minute ago." She points to a picture of Tom leaning back on the bed, his body long and lean. "It's clear he interests you."

"He was helping me out with a job application. For a boudoir studio."

"Hmmm." Hazel pours over the pictures. "You have a knack for it, sweetheart. These are excellent. Granted, you have a perfect practice model here. Most of boudoir is helping your client get comfortable. Is that something you want to do?"

"Maybe. It was nerve-wracking but—"

Hazel holds up a particularly sexy image of Tom sliding his hand down his torso. "Yes, I imagine Tom didn't make it easy."

It's like Tom can tell we're talking about him. He nods to Hazel. When she turns back to me without responding, he makes his way towards us.

Hazel looks at me and raises an eyebrow in a
watch this
gesture. "Of course, once you're met one famous person, you've met them all. The size of the ego on some of them—worst part of the job." She turns to face Tom. "Thomas, sweetheart. We were just talking about you."

He slides his arm around her shoulder. "Yes, I know. Once you meet Tom Steele, everyone pales in comparison. I've heard that from a lot of different women. Oh wait, that's once you've fucked Tom Steele everyone else pales in comparison." He winks at me.

"Thomas, don't sexually harass my assistant. It's bad enough you have her running around photographing you." She removes his arm from her shoulder. "Can't you take your own Instagram photos like a normal celebrity?"

"Why settle for normal when I could have the best?" Tom asks.

Hazel looks back to me. "You're lucky you're talented or your ego would be unbearable."

"Hazel, you wound me. Promise I'm your favorite."

"I prefer Pete."

"Ouch. Not even her favorite band member. Not even her favorite Steele brother." Tom smiles, reveling in their sparring. "What does Pete have that I don't?"

"An aura of mystery."

"What good is mystery?"

"He has a thigh tattoo"

"Thigh tattoo? That doesn't sound very mysterious, Ms. Alexander. Have you been sneaking into Pete's room to watch him shower?"

"I'm sorry darling, but I love a man with a steady hand and a quiet disposition," she says.

"She thinks you're too loud," I explain.

"Pete has a rhythm. Thomas, you forget how many times I've seen you pound on those poor drums of yours. A woman my age doesn't like it that fast and rough."

"Hazel, baby, you know I'll go any speed you want," Tom says.

"Sorry. My heart is set on Pete."

"Damn, this is the first time I ever lost a woman to Pete." Tom shifts his weight. "You know he has a girl, right?"

"Yes, and you've told me twenty times that he won't have a girl for long. You don't make it this long in my line of work without patience." Hazel smiles. "You'll always be my favorite Sinful Serenade drummer."

Tom mimes being stabbed in the gut.

Hazel chuckles. "Get back to work, sweetheart."

"Don't tell me you also ask Pete to model for your nudes," he says.

"Has he finally agreed?" Hazel teases.

"I'll put in a good word for you." He winks on his way back to the band.

Once Tom is out of earshot, Hazel turns to me. "He's very handsome."

There's no sense in denying that point. I nod.

"But you can't sleep with the talent. That kind of thing isn't done anymore."

"I'm not."

"You're thinking about it."

I must be blushing, because she nods, affirming her suspicions.

"Look all you want," she says. "But keep it in your pants."

***

T
here are almost four hours between the sound check and the opening band. I spend every minute of them learning from Hazel. She takes me through hundreds of concert tour photographs. The pictures she takes are great. Full of life and energy and passion. They're crisp, in focus, not at all staged.

I get lost in her directions. Once we get going, she'll take one side of the stage. Depending on the night, I'll take the press box, the venue's area for photographers, or the other side of the stage. Today, I'm going to act as her shadow. All I have to do is follow commands.

We make our way to the press area in the middle of the opening band's set. Our view is a little too angled, but otherwise it's perfect. I notice nothing about the band. I watch her work. The way she waits for the perfect moment then lines up a shot in the blink of an eye. Every few minutes, she asks for a different lens. A deflector. A coffee. A water. Something.

I'm so lost in her instructions, that I barely notice Sinful Serenade come on.

She chuckles and points to the stage. "Your muse."

Tom is standing behind his drum kit, teasing the audience by pulling his shirt up his stomach. One inch. Then two. Three. Four. Then it's over his chest, his head. A heap on the ground.

Women scream. At least five hundred. Maybe a thousand.

Hazel motions to my camera. "Take a few of him."

I watch Tom through my camera as the guys start the song. In an instant, he's lost in the music. His arms and wrists are strong and precise as bangs his sticks against the drums, the cymbals. His foot taps out a beat on the bass drum. He moves so fast he's a blur on my screen. Sweat drips down his neck and torso. His hair sticks to his skin.

God, he's fucking sexy.

As a subject.

I'm only doing my job here.

***

A
fter a thirty minute post-game with Hazel, I flash my backstage pass to the security guard and go in search of the band. My text messages announce that Drew and Miles are already on their way to the airport to send off their girlfriends.

Leaving me as the lone woman in a group of depraved men. If Mom knew, she'd be livid. I'm tempted to call her just to rub it in.

I bump into someone. One of the guys from the opening band. I forget his name. He's ridiculously tall and broad. He looks down at me with interest.

"Hey. You busy tonight..." He stares at me like he's trying to remember my name.

He's attractive. Okay, body, let's do this. Look at the attractive man and want him. He's tall. He's broad. He's buff. He has a full sleeve tattoo, colorful koi fish.

He's hot.

My body refuses to cooperate. Nothing. I copy Tom's player move and brush my fingers against his wrist. Strong hands. But nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

"It's Willow. I'm Drew's sister."

"Oh. Right." He steps back, no doubt aware of Drew's reputation for beating people up. "See you later."

It's a good thing my body doesn't care about him or I'd be offended. No matter. I step into the dressing room. It's the size of a hotel room, and it's packed.

Tom is sitting on a couch, two eager women on each side of him. He tells a story with an animated expression. His gestures are big and loud. But he's not really engaging with the women. He's in his own world, the same way he was when he was playing.

The women take turns trying to touch him. Mostly, they keep it above the waist, grabbing at his shoulder or reaching for his hair. He doesn't react to their affection. Not really. He just shifts to another girl and continues his performance.

He's still on stage, really.

"Hey. Willow, right?" A deep, patient voice asks.

It's not Drew or Miles. Must be Pete. I spin. Sure enough, it's the fit, dark haired bassist. I know Hazel was teasing Tom, but there is something appealing about his reserved disposition. There's this hint of pain in his eyes, like there's an ocean of depth underneath his calm surface.