Rockstar’s Accidental Marriage (Wild Band Rockstars #2)

24. Twenty-Four

Twenty-Four

Sam

We’re finally back home in Jacksonville and just finished unloading our stuff from the bus. The rest of the band members have already scattered. Making the most of our brief downtime.

Emily’s sitting across from me in the studio, her fingers tightly wrapped around her teacup, staring into it like it holds the answers, but I know better. This isn’t something tea can solve.

“We need to tell Cass,” I say again, my voice steady even though I feel my patience is hanging by a thread.

She glances up, her eyes meeting mine briefly before darting away. “Sam, we don’t have proof. What are we even going to tell him? That we think someone’s out to sabotage the band but have no idea who it is or why they’re doing it?”

“Yes,” I say bluntly, leaning forward. “That’s exactly what we tell him. He needs to know.”

She exhales sharply. “And what if we’re wrong? What if it’s just a string of bad luck, and we’re overreacting?”

I shake my head, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. “And what if we’re not wrong? Emily, this isn’t just bad luck. The sound system failure, the busted amp, the pyrotechnics—it’s too much. And what about the way that the venue manager talked to you last night? That didn’t come out of nowhere. Someone’s feeding these people garbage about you and the band.”

Her jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think she’s going to refuse stubbornly. But then she looks away, her shoulders slumping slightly.

I push my chair back, the legs scraping softly against the floor. “Look,” I say, softening my tone, “I know you don’t want to make this a bigger deal than it already feels. But If someone’s targeting you—or us—we need to stop them before they do real damage.”

Her gaze flicks back to me, hesitant but thoughtful. “Do you think they’re after me?”

I shrug. “Maybe. That venue manager wasn’t just rude; he was dismissive. He acted like you didn’t belong, like you were some kind of liability. And let’s be honest—he didn’t pull that attitude out of thin air.”

Emily sighs, her fingers tapping lightly against the ceramic rim of her cup. “But Cass has so much on his plate already.”

“Cass can handle it,” I say firmly. “And he’d want to know. He trusts you, Emily. He hired you because you’re the best person for this job. Don’t let some jerk with a chip on his shoulder make you doubt that.”

For a long moment, she doesn’t respond, and I can see the gears turning in her head. Finally, she nods, her shoulders straightening as she sets the teacup on the table. “Okay,” she says quietly. “Let’s tell him.”

I stand, holding out a hand to her. “Now?”

“Now,” she says, her voice firmer this time.

Cass is in the kitchen when we find him. He looks up with a grin as we enter.

“Hey, what’s up?” he says, setting down the beer he pulled from the fridge and sitting at the table.

Emily glances at me, and I give her a small nod.

“We need to talk to you,” she says, stepping forward.

Cass’s grin fades slightly, his brows furrowing. “This sounds serious.”

“It might be,” I say, crossing my arms as I lean against the doorframe. “We’ve noticed some... issues over the past few shows. Things that don’t feel like coincidences.”

Cass sits up straighter, his expression sharpening. “What kind of issues?”

Emily launches into a rundown of everything that’s happened. She explains how the equipment was checked before each performance and how these problems still managed to crop up at the worst possible moments.

Cass listens intently, his gaze flicking between the two of us. When Emily finishes, he leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “And you think someone’s behind this?”

“We don’t know for sure,” I admit. “But it feels off. And the way that venue manager treated Emily—someone’s been badmouthing her, Cass. That much is obvious.”

Cass’s eyes narrow, and he turns toward his sister. “You think someone’s trying to undermine you?”

Emily hesitates, then nods slowly. “I don’t know why, but... yes. That’s what it feels like.”

Cass lets out a long breath. “This is serious. If someone’s messing with the band—or you—it could jeopardize everything we’ve worked for.”

“That’s why we wanted to tell you,” I say. “We thought you should know before anything else happens.”

Cass nods, his expression grim but determined. “You did the right thing. I’ll talk to Kendrick about this, and we’ll keep an eye out for anything suspicious. In the meantime, don’t let this shake you, Emily. You’re doing an amazing job, and anyone who says otherwise is full of crap.”

Emily’s lips curve into a small, grateful smile. “Thanks, Cass.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says, standing and clapping a hand on my shoulder. “We’re a team. We’ve got each other’s backs.”

As we leave the studio, Emily lets out a small sigh, her shoulders relaxing slightly.

“Well, that went better than I expected,” she admits.

“Told you,” I say, slipping an arm around her waist. “Cass always has your back. And so do I.”

I press a kiss to the top of her head, a surge of protectiveness sweeping through me.

But as we head back to the studio, I can’t shake the feeling that this is far from over. Whoever’s behind this isn’t going to stop—not until we figure out who they are and why they’re doing it.

And when we do, they’re going to regret ever messing with Emily—or this band.

The tension coiled tightly in my chest since Emily and I told Cass about our suspicions starts to unravel the moment we step back into the beach house. It’s like this place has a magic all its own—a haven where the chaos of the world can’t quite reach us.

Emily walks ahead of me into the house, her shoulders relaxing as she takes in the familiar surroundings. Her plants are still thriving, their vibrant greens and cheerful blooms scattered across the porch and living spaces.

“Not a single one has died,” she murmurs, crouching down to inspect a trailing ivy hanging in the corner.

“Of course not,” I say, leaning against the doorframe with a small smile. “With that weekly care service, this place is in better shape than when we left it.”

She laughs softly, brushing a hand over one of the leaves. “I know, but I'm still worried.”

“Emily Wild Ryder,” I tease, wrapping my arms around her from behind. She melts against me naturally, like we've been doing this dance forever. Her soft curves fit perfectly against my chest, and the familiar scent of her shampoo mingles with the salt air. “You worry enough for an army. These plants are tougher than you think.”

Her laughter bubbles out again, light and carefree, and it’s a sound I haven’t heard nearly enough lately. “How would you know? You know nothing about plants,” she points out, tilting her head back to look at me. When I just shrug, she says, “You’re incorrigible.”

“Yep. That’s why I hope our baby takes after you,” I reply playfully, pressing a kiss to her temple, and as she turns away, I give her ass a lusty smack.

She gives me a playful glare over one shoulder but doesn’t complain. She likes my hands on her.

We spend the rest of the afternoon settling back in—filling the fridge, unpacking the suitcases and duffle bags we brought, and reclaiming the quiet of our beach retreat. As the sun dips low in the sky, I suggest we take a walk.

Emily agrees with a nod, slipping her hand into mine as we step out onto the soft, cool sand. The waves crash gently against the shore; their constant rhythm is both soothing and powerful.

“It’s crazy how different everything feels here,” she says after a while, her voice quiet.

“Yes, it’s similar to the farm. Safe. Like this is our real life, and all the rest isn’t.”

She glances up at me in surprise, her blue eyes catching the fading sunlight. “Yeah, that’s exactly how it feels.”

“That’s because nothing else matters. Not when we’re here.” I murmur, tighten my grip on her hand.

We walk silently for a while, the cool evening breeze tugging against Emily’s hair and the hem of her light sweater. I watch her out of the corner of my eye, thinking how lovely she appears as she looks out at the horizon.

“Do you ever think about the future?” she asks suddenly, her voice carrying a note of hesitation.

“All the time,” I admit.

She raises an eyebrow. “Really? You don’t strike me as the planning type.”

I chuckle. “You’re right. But this is different.”

“How so?”

I stop walking, gently pulling her to a halt beside me. “Because now I have something—well, someone—to plan for.” My gaze drops to her belly, where our child is growing, and then back to her face. “You. The baby. It changes everything.”

Her eyes glisten, and she bites her lip, looking down at our joined hands. “I guess I’m just scared. What if we mess it all up?”

“We won’t,” I say firmly, tilting her chin up so she has to look at me. “I mean, how bad could we be?” I joke. Then, suddenly serious, I reach out, brushing the back of my fingers down her soft cheek. “We’ll figure it out, Cupcake–together.”

For a moment, she just stares at me, her expression unreadable. Then she nods, a small, tentative smile curving her lips.

“I’m glad I have you,” she whispers.

“Damn right, you are,” I reply arrogantly, earning a soft laugh from her.

We continue walking until the last rays of sunlight disappear, replaced by the moon's silvery glow. By the time we head back to the house, the tension that has been weighing on both of us feels a little lighter.

The next morning comes too quickly, the sunlight streaming through the curtains nudging me awake. I roll over, expecting to find Emily still curled up beside me, but the spot where she should be is empty. The sheets still holding her warmth; I miss her instantly. The sound of her humming downstairs draws me like a magnet.

Throwing on some boxers, I make my way to the kitchen to find her standing by the stove, softly humming as she flips pancakes.

“Morning,” I say, leaning against the doorway.

She turns, her smile bright. “Morning. I figured we should eat before the appointment.”

“You didn’t have to cook,” I say, moving to wrap my arms around her waist.

“I wanted to,” she replies, leaning into my touch.

We eat quickly, the conversation light and easy, and then head out to the doctor’s office. The drive is quiet, both of us lost in our own thoughts. But I can tell Emily’s slightly nervous—she keeps fiddling with the hem of her shirt as she gazes worriedly out the truck window as everything blurs past.

“Hey,” I say, reaching over to squeeze her hand. “I thought we settled this last time. You have nothing to worry about. Everything’s going to be fine.”

She nods, but her smile is tight.

The appointment is brief but emotional.

“Healthy and right on track,” the doctor says, glancing between us.

Emily exhales a shaky breath, her grip on my hand tightening. “Thank you, doctor,” she whispers.

Back in the car, she’s quieter than usual, and her eyes have a faraway look to them.

“Penny for your thoughts?” I ask as we pull out of the parking lot.

She glances at me, her expression soft. “I’m just... happy and relieved that everything seems fine with the baby. Nervous but happy.”

“According to the doctor, everything’s a go,” I say, reassuringly leaning over to wrap my arm around her shoulders tightly, pulling her against my side.

Emily rests her head on my shoulder, her fingers laced with mine.

“Sam, have you picked out any baby names?” she asks softly.

Startled, I just look at her for a moment. “Uh. No. I mean–we have six more months to think of a name. Shouldn’t we wait to see if it's a boy or a girl before we try to name it?”

Emily rolls her eyes. “I didn’t mean to throw you into a panic.” She laughs. “I just wondered if you had something in mind or any family names we should consider.”

“Family names?” I ask with a confused frown.

Emily smiles. “Yes, um… like the name Louella is an old family name on my mother’s side of the family.”

“Louella? Isn’t that a girl’s name? People would shorten it. You want our little girl to be called Lou?” I ask in disbelief.

Emily shakes her head in exasperation. “Not really. I used that as an example. It’s a name that runs in our family. Believe me, we have enough Louella’s right now.”

The rest of the ride home, we take turns throwing out possible names for our unborn child. They get more outlandish the closer we get to the house.

“You do not seriously want to call our child Elvis?”

“Only if it’s a boy,” I say, trying not to laugh.

“How about this—if it’s a boy, I name him, and if it’s a girl, you get to name her,” she says, “At least that way, if you name her Moondrop or something else silly, it won’t seem so bad.”

“Deal!” I say with a smirk as I turn the truck onto our gravel driveway.

Walking around the vehicle, I reach up to assist Emily and pull her into a swift embrace.

“It doesn’t matter what we call our child because he or she will be surrounded by parents who love them,” I say in a low voice. Her body feels soft and yielding against mine, and I'm struck by how right this feels. The way she looks up at me with those misty blue eyes, full of trust and love, makes my heart clench. Protecting this—protecting her and our growing family—isn't just a duty anymore. It's everything.