Rockstar’s Fake Engagement (Wild Band Rockstars #4)

1. One

One

Nate

The lights flicker once before the arena explodes with sound. The bass drum pounds, reverberating through my chest as I take my place behind my drum set. The rush of adrenaline is instantaneous—a familiar, addictive burn. My pulse syncs with the rhythm, and my body knows exactly what to do before my mind even catches up.

The crowd roars. Thousands of fans, screaming, singing, and moving like one giant wave in the sea of pulsing lights. This is the moment I live for. The moment when nothing else exists—not the flashing cameras, the press junkies, or the fake smiles. Just the music.

I spin my sticks between my fingers, the worn wood like an extension of my own hands. Sam grins at me from across the stage, fingers flying over the strings of his bass. Luke’s already lost in his own world at the keyboard, eyes half-closed, mouthing along to the lyrics. Vince, ever intense, scowls at his guitar, his fingers a blur as they move over the strings. And Cass? He owns the stage—his voice raw, electric.

But me? I’m the heartbeat. The steady pulse that keeps it all together. I don’t need the spotlight. I don’t need to be out front. I just need the rhythm.

The set is a blur of sweat, power, and perfect chaos. When we crash into the final song—our biggest hit—I let loose. The drum solo is mine. Every strike is harder, sharper. My sticks blur, the rhythm flowing from me as naturally as breath. The crowd chants my name, but I don’t break focus.

I don’t play for them. I play because I have to.

The last cymbal hit crashes, and the stage goes dark. For a moment, silence. Then—deafening applause. The sound vibrates through my bones as we take our final encore. Cass slaps me on the back, and Vince punches my shoulder. The energy is electric, addictive—a high that can’t be replicated anywhere else.

We exit the stage and head straight for the green room.

Two hours later, I’m ready for a drink. The Wild Band avoids crowded afterparties when we can—too much noise, too many people, and way too many cameras. Instead, we take over a private bar in the hotel—a sleek, dimly lit lounge with plush seating and a fully stocked selection of top-shelf liquor.

I drop into the nearest corner booth, exhaling slowly as the post-show energy hums through my veins. The performance is over, but the rhythm is still in my head. My fingers drum against my thigh as I settle in.

Luke slides a glass of whiskey in front of me, winking before dropping onto the bench beside me.

Vince is already working his charm on a leggy blonde who’s hanging on his every word. Luke quickly begins to demolish a plate of sliders while his fiancée, Lila, watches with amused affection. Cass and Kendrick are huddled together in deep conversation, probably discussing the new song they’ve been working on. Sam’s got his arm around Emily, our manager, and both of them look through performance footage on her tablet.

Sam raises his beer. “Hell of a show.” He clinks his bottle against Cass’s glass of bourbon.

Cass nods, looking relaxed for once. “Crowd was wild tonight.”

“Like always.” Vince stretches his long legs out, tossing an arm over the blonde’s shoulders. “They come for the music, but they stay for the eye candy.” He grins. “Which, let’s be honest, is me.”

Sam snorts.

Vince smirks. “Can I help it if I’m the most adored?” He smiles down at his current lady friend.

Luke shoves a fry into his mouth. “You mean the most annoying.”

I shake my head, sipping my whiskey as the conversation flows around me. This is how it always is—Sam cracking jokes, his wife, Emily, keeping us all on track as our manager. Vince feeding his ego while he schmoozes a date, while Luke thinks about his next meal. It’s a good thing he’s marrying a chef. And Cass and Kendrick are grounding it all. I watch, taking it all in, letting their energy fill the space.

I don’t say much. I never do.

I like to watch. To observe.

People reveal everything in the way they move, the way they talk, and the way they pretend not to care. You just have to know how to listen.

A sudden noise outside the bar catches my attention. Voices rising. The unmistakable sound of camera shutters clicking at rapid speed.

I glance toward the entrance just as the doors swing open. A gust of cool air rushes in, along with a wave of flashing lights from the hallway beyond.

A group of hotel security pushes through the doorway, trying to block the view, but it’s already too late.

Phones come out, cameras flash, and eager whispers ripple through the crowd. Through the chaos, I catch a glimpse of a brilliant smile and raven hair. Something about her makes me lean forward, trying to get a better look, but the crowd shifts, and she’s gone. Someone nearby whispers, “Lacey Monroe,” but I’m already settling back into my corner, trying to ignore the strange pull I felt in that brief moment.

I take another sip of whiskey, running a hand through my dark hair as I return to my quiet observation of the room. But my thoughts keep drifting back to that smile, those few seconds when everything else seemed to fade away. I shake it off. I’m not the type to get caught up in celebrity drama.

Cass, beside me, follows my gaze. “Did you recognize her?”

I nod. “Hard not to.”

“She’s everywhere these days,” Sam adds. “Big contract, with a company that’s affiliated with Disney. New movie, the whole deal.”

“Yeah,” Vince says, grinning. “And she’s hot as hell.” His current date frowns at him, but he just shrugs unapologetically.

Saying nothing, I drain the rest of my whiskey and set the glass down with a soft clink.

I make my excuses early, ignoring Vince’s predictable jabs about being boring. The noise and crowd are getting to me, and the road is calling. Emily catches my eye as I stand, giving me a knowing nod. She understands—it’s why she’s the best manager in the business. She gets us—all our quirks and needs. She also knows that I’m driving straight from Atlanta to Jacksonville, my home. The rest of the band is taking the tour buses, but after the show, I feel like driving. I’m restless and need the thrill of the drive for now.

The hotel’s service elevator takes me straight to the private garage where my Audi RS7 waits. It’s not flashy like Vince’s collection of sports cars, but it’s fast, reliable, and, most importantly, has dark-tinted windows. The engine purrs to life, and I feel the last of the show’s energy start to fade.

The late-night streets of Atlanta gradually give way to the wide open roads leading south to Jacksonville, Florida. The highway stretches ahead, dark and mostly empty, the hum of the engine the only sound cutting through the stillness of the night. I roll down the window, letting the rush of cool air whip through the car, carrying away the lingering tension from the show. The adrenaline is still there, a steady pulse under my skin, but out here, with nothing but the highway and the endless stretch of stars overhead it starts to settle.

This is what I need. No flashing cameras, no deafening crowds, no constant expectations. Just the steady rhythm of tires on pavement, the occasional glow of passing headlights, and the miles rolling away beneath me. Georgia fades in the rearview, and with every mile closer to Jacksonville, my muscles loosen, and my mind clears. Performing is a high unlike anything else, but this—this quiet solitude is where I find balance.

My fingers tap out an absent beat on the steering wheel. The lonesome highway will give way to the coast soon, and then I’ll be home—just a few more hours of open road, silence, and being alone in my own head. And right now, that’s exactly what I want.

My home sits on a stretch of private beach, far enough from everything to avoid the worst of the scrutiny of the press but close enough for band commitments. The gate automatically opens as I approach, security cameras tracking my car’s progress up the winding driveway.

Home. Finally!

The house is new, has high security, and was built exactly how I wanted it—sleek, modern, and private. The interior has clean lines and floor-to-ceiling windows, but it’s the privacy and the view that I love the most.

I punch in the security code and step into the quiet darkness. Motion sensors activate soft lighting as I move through the house, illuminating the open-concept living space. The ocean stretches endlessly beyond the windows, its black waves silvered by moonlight. This view never gets old, and no one can see in unless I let them.

That’s the way I like it. Fame comes with a price, and I learned early on to protect what matters.

My muscles ache pleasantly from the show and the long drive as I shed my leather jacket and boots. The house is silent except for the faint sound of waves breaking on the beach below. This is what I crave—space to decompress, to let the adrenaline fade away.

In my home office, the monitors display various stock market data. Even at this hour, Asian markets are active, and there’s always something to track. I’ve made more money here than I ever have from music, though few people know that. The band members do—I manage most of their portfolios. Sometimes, it’s easier to focus on numbers more than people.

An early notification flashes on my phone—the coming week’s schedule. There’s a photo shoot on Monday, followed by a meeting with Family First, a family-friendly brand wanting to partner with the band—with me, and I’m looking forward to it. I scroll through the details, pausing when another notification appears. It’s a news alert about Lacey Monroe, her face smiling at me from my phone screen.

‘New Princess Star Lacey Monroe Spotted at Exclusive Atlanta Hotel.’

I click it closed before reading more, but her smile lingers in my mind. There was something genuine about it, different from the practiced smiles I’m used to seeing in the industry. I shake my head to clear it. I don’t like distractions.

Moving to the kitchen, I pour another finger of whiskey and head out to the deck. The early morning air is cool against my skin, carrying the salty scent of the ocean. Below, waves crash against the private beach, their rhythm as familiar to me now as any drumbeat.

I lean against the railing, sipping my whiskey and letting my thoughts drift. The sun will be up soon, and the week ahead will bring its own chaos—photos, meetings, contracts, appearances. But right now, it’s just me, the ocean, and the quiet.

As I stand there, I think about the future and wonder what it holds. Lately, I’ve been feeling restless, which is unlike me. It’s as if there is something waiting just over the horizon. Something I can’t quite see, but I can sense it. I suddenly shiver as a hint of unease rolls through me—a silent warning that my quiet solitude is about to change.

A shooting star suddenly streaks across the sky, and I almost laugh at the timing, like some cosmic sign. But I don’t believe in signs. I believe in rhythm, patterns, and the predictable rise and fall of markets and music, and in keeping things simple and controlled.

The last of my whiskey burns pleasantly as I finish it—time for sleep. The days ahead are typical in the life of a rockstar—cameras, contracts, and carefully maintained images. I head inside, secure in my quiet sanctuary.

But even as I get ready for bed, that unease flashes through my mind again as I recall that glimpse in the bar. That smile. Those eyes. I’ve seen countless beautiful women and have been pursued by more than I care to remember. So why can’t I shake this one brief moment?

Whatever’s coming, I just hope it doesn’t wreck my carefully ordered world.