Tattoos and Heartbreak: An Angsty Rockstar Romance: Trouble Next Door, #1

LILA

Y ou’re fucking kidding me right now.

I blew a breath out, tightened my hands on the steering wheel, and very pointedly didn’t look at my best friend—who was in the passenger seat—as she proceeded to tell the person on the phone exactly why they had to be kidding. That they couldn’t possibly know what they were talking about, and further, that they might actually be high as a kite.

The sad thing was, I didn’t think they were high as a kite. I also didn’t think they were wrong, and I was positive they knew exactly what they were talking about. Because that person on the phone was my other best friend and our stand-in manager. And she pretty much always knew what she was talking about.

The problem was, Anna didn’t like what she was saying right now. And Anna’s answer to not liking something was to pretend that it must be some sort of mistake. She’d been that way since we were kids, and getting into the music business—or at least trying to get into the music business—hadn’t changed it.

I had a sudden memory of her lecturing our second-grade teacher about why, exactly, recess couldn’t only be half an hour long, and felt my lips twitch.

Then she slammed her phone back into her lap and my smile died.

Bad news? I asked, reaching for a light tone.

The same news it always is, she muttered. "They like us. They love our look. Love the idea of two girls forming a band together and not needing anyone else. Think we’re so talented. But they just don’t see a market for singers like us out there in the wide world. And you know how it goes; if there’s no market⁠—"

There’s no second audition, I finished for her, my hands growing even tighter on the steering wheel.

God I was tired of this. Anna and I had been playing music since we were old enough to figure out that a piano was better for more than just random banging, and we’d formed our first band—if you could call it that—when we were fourteen. We’d been refining our sound ever since, getting stronger every year and playing in every bar and on every street corner that would have us. We were the only band I knew of that featured a piano—well, a keyboard—and guitar, and we were fucking good.

The problem was, no one we’d auditioned for seemed to agree with that assessment.

Or rather, they thought we were good. They just didn’t think we were marketable. Whatever that meant.

Is it because we don’t have any guys in the band? Because we can add a guy. Maybe we could add drums. Or bass.

Anna snorted. I don’t think it’s the lack of a guy, Lila. It’s the lack of vision in the music industry itself. We need a better way in. We need to find a way to go right to the source.

Now it was my turn to snort. Like it would ever be that easy. Like we could just wake up one day to a sign in the sky that read ‘The Source Is This Way. Follow the Arrow, Girls.’

Anna actually laughed at that, which was a real victory as the girl wasn’t known for laughing. I mean if you have God on speed dial and can order a sign like that…

But would he actually come through? I wondered. Because the last time I ordered something from God he was a little bit cagey on the follow-up.

I felt her amused glance. When was the last time you ordered something from God? And if you have a direct line to him, why the hell have you been keeping it a secret?

I shrugged. I ordered a bike from him once. Took three years to get it, though, so I didn’t try again. I’m an immediate gratification sort of girl.

Maybe it’s time you try again. Because I’m running out of ideas.

That was also unlike Anna, who had known exactly who she was and what she was doing for as long as I’d known her—which had been forever. We’d grown up in the same neighborhood in Nashville and had been best friends since we could walk. Before that, if you believed the stories our mothers told.

I didn’t know if I did.

I also didn’t know if I had any faith in some guy in the sky granting wishes.

But Anna and I had been trying to land a contract for years now, and she was right about running out of ideas. We’d auditioned for every agent and talent scout in the city and had zero luck, and in a town like Nashville that meant we must have auditioned for hundreds of people.

If we wanted that contract, we were going to have to try something bigger than just auditioning.

Making a wish into the sky… didn’t seem like the worst thing. I mean, it wasn’t exactly going to hurt, right?

Right, okay. Whoever’s up there and in control, I’m officially wishing for a sign that tells us exactly how to get to the source. Or a contract, since that’s what we’re actually going for here.

I bit my lip and paused, not knowing what to expect. What happened when you made a wish like that? Lightning? Thunder? Was the ground going to open up and swallow me for the sheer audacity of making fun of the process?

But a moment later, nothing like that had happened.

Nothing happened.

As I said, I told her, casting a glance at my best friend. Cagey with the follow-up.

Well maybe it takes a second, she replied, leaning forward and turning the radio on.

Boy, kids, do I have news for you, the DJ said immediately. And you’re not going to want to miss this. In fact, I’m betting you’re going to wish you were able to rewind it and hear it again. That’s how big this is! And the announcement is exclusive to this show right here, because I’ve heard it right from the horse’s mouth. Or from Parker Pelton’s, which is the same thing. Not that she’s a horse, but you know what I mean. The point is, if you don’t know Parker, she’s the manager to country western’s darlings, Avery Dawson and Olivia Johns, plus Connor Wheating, if the rumors are true. And if you don’t know who they are, I don’t know what world you’ve been living in.

Not the real world, Anna breathed. Get to the point, buddy.

The point, then, the jock—David Hamm, I remembered—went on. The point is, Avery’s little label is the new home for Olivia and Connor, and in case you haven’t heard, they’re going on tour. Starting next week. They’re taking Global Authors and The Leathers with them and they’re heading from Nashville to Missouri and back. But here’s the kicker. They’re inviting people to follow them the same way fans followed them on their first tour. And there’s more. They’re looking for a new act for Avery’s new label. They’re doing auditions on the road. And they’re asking for small bands to follow them and perform for them.

I didn’t even hear the rest of what he said. I was too busy jerking the wheel to the side and turning to stare at Anna, my mouth open and my mind screaming through the possibilities. Avery Dawson’s label. Olivia Johns and Connor Wheating. Global Writers. The Leathers.

An invitation to come on tour.

A guaranteed audition.

With a contract as the reward.

Think we’d have a shot? I whispered.

Anna, who was wearing the same expression I could feel on my own face, shrugged. Maybe?

Think it’s worth trying?

I don’t know. Do you?

A grin stretched itself across my face, so broad that it actually hurt my cheeks. Are you kidding? Olivia and Connor? On tour? With Global Writers? Rivers Shine, Anna.

A smile quirked her lips at that, too. Rivers Shine. The hottest guy in the entire industry, and the rock star you’ve had a crush on since we were fourteen. But he can’t be the reason we’re going, Lila.

I turned and grabbed the wheel, grasping it and staring at the road ahead of me, seeing, instead of the asphalt of the road back into our neighborhood, an audience stretching out in front of us. A huge stage. People singing our music and cheering for us.

A contract.

Sure, Rivers Shine was great. Insanely hot, all tattoos and brooding heartbreak. A horrible reputation and, by all accounts, the guy who slept with a different girl every freaking night.

I’d always wanted to meet him. I’d always wondered if he was actually as bad—or as hot—as everyone said he was. And if I followed them on the road, I’d definitely get to see him up close and personal.

But I didn’t even care about that.

Because it was going to be way hotter to get in front of Olivia Johns and Connor Wheating and show them exactly what we could do.

We’re going, I said sharply. And we’re going to win that contract.

And if we get to ogle Rivers Shine in the meantime? Anna asked on a sigh.

I shrugged. It won’t be the worst thing. But it also won’t be what we’re there for.

And I screeched back out onto the road, my heart hammering in my ribs at what we were about to do—and what it might lead to.

RIVERS

Islammed the door behind me and stalked from one end of my hotel room to the other, hands clenched and heart beating a furious tattoo against my ribs.

God, I hated this gig. I hated all the people and all the cameras and all the fucking reporters all the time. The people expecting me to get out there and play the version of Rivers Shine they knew and thought they loved—all so they could write more articles about how terrible I was and how much I took my life for granted.

I fucking hated them all.

And a whole lot of the time, I hated myself for playing along with it.

Not that I ever changed my behavior in response to that feeling.

I let a smirk creep across my face and made my way to the mini fridge in the room, jerking it open and looking for my favorite drink. Johnny Walker Black Label. Perfect. I jerked it off the shelf, busting right through the tape the hotel had put there to secure it, and unscrewed the cap. Then I paused long enough to eye the can of Coke sitting on the next shelf.

Any civilized person would take a moment and mix a drink. Put some Coke and ice in a glass to gentle the whiskey a bit.

But I’d never been civilized.

I threw the cap to the side and held the bottle to my lips, tipping it and letting the fire of the whiskey flow down my throat. The same way I’d been doing since I was fourteen years old.

Then I sent the bottle flying toward the wall and made for the phone. I was going to need a whole lot more than that little sample of Jack to forget the mess of an interview I’d just been through. All those pointed questions about the girl I’d been seen with last week. The not-so-subtle insinuation that my reputation might be harming my band’s chances at hitting it big. The even-less-subtle note that Olivia and Connor had done the Writers a favor by taking us on tour, and that they might drop us if I didn’t clean up my act.

Fuck them. Fuck that bitch reporter. I’d been doing this for ten years now—since I was fourteen and pop rock’s brand new Golden Kid—and I was thinking I knew a thing or two about how the industry worked. The fans wanted excitement and drama. They wanted someone with a great voice who could entertain and scandalize them on the pages of the magazines.

They wanted someone who walked a line they’d never have walked on their own.

The bad boy. The damaged, brooding kid who wore