Wayward Lane: The Complete Series

Prologue

VAN

FOUR YEARS AGO

My office. Now.

Nothing like starting off the first day of a new job with a text like that from your boss.

Not that it was entirely unexpected. It had been a crazy-ass week.

Seven days ago, I turned forty.

Forty.

Four decades of my life had passed. Don’t ask me how the fuck that happened. One day, I was thirty and looking at forever, then I blinked, and here I was.

Then, five days ago, the woman I’d been casually seeing for the past three weeks dumped me. She said she was sick of my “total lack of commitment.” We’d only gone out, like, two or three times; what the hell did she mean by that?

Whatever.

I didn’t have the bandwidth to date or to give my social life any thought. The fact that I couldn’t remember her last name was a sure sign that the relationship - if you could even call it that - was going nowhere.

Finally, two days ago, my week turned around. In the very best way.

I’d gotten a job offer to work for Bandit Music, the biggest label in the country.

Almost two decades of being on the road, managing bands, and scheduling tours had all led up to this. Now, I was getting the chance to manage not just any band but one that had recently signed with the label.

According to my boss and Bandit CEO, Greg Haddley, Wayward Lane was the next hot thing.

Greg had a proven track record of finding and developing top-selling artists, so I was excited as fuck, to say the least.

And I wasn’t going to let anything distract me from this opportunity—not a milestone birthday, and certainly not the loss of a potential relationship that was over before it had even begun.

Picking up my work cell, I texted Greg a quick “I’m heading up now” response and took the elevator to the thirty-fifth floor.

When the doors opened, Greg’s assistant motioned me to enter his office.

The space was big and bright, with panoramic views of Nashville.

I was envious. His office was larger than my entire one-bedroom condo.

But it wasn’t just Greg in the room waiting for me.

There was a group of guys sitting across from him who looked to be in their early twenties, wearing wide-legged jeans, rumpled t-shirts, and scuffed doc martens. They all had long hair—with one exception—and copious tattoos and piercings among them.

I could smell their cocky attitude even from this distance.

Then I remembered the demo tape and the lead singer in particular. He had a stellar voice and a memorable face.

These were the guys I’d be working with, the band called Wayward Lane. Their blend of punk, rock, and soul had garnered a lot of attention from various labels, and between their sound and their look, it was no wonder.

Greg stood up, buttoned his suit jacket, and motioned for me to come in.

“Ivan, I want you to meet Wayward Lane: Brodie James, lead vocals; Iain Holloway, guitar; Faisel Reed, drums; and Ronin Stadler, bass. Guys, this is Ivan Cross. He’s been assigned as your manager and will take good care of you from here on out.”

The singer stood up first, the guy with the shaved head, and held out his hand.

Brodie was a few inches shorter than me but long and lean, with a model-perfect profile and tattoos everywhere but his face.

What caught my attention were his intense hazel eyes and a smirk that was difficult to ignore. The guy had a magnetic presence, no question, and he fucking knew it. If he could sing as well as his demo proved, he’d draw in the fans en masse.

He’d also be easy to photograph. The press office would love him.

“How long have you been in this business?” Brodie asked me point blank.

No “nice to meet you” or any polite chit-chat. Let’s get right to it.

“Since I graduated from college.”

“You mean, like, in the nineties? Can you remember that far back?” he asked with a curl of his lip, and the rest of the guys chuckled.

“Don’t knock someone with experience or that decade. Grunge was fucking awesome,” I snapped back. “I know my shit. And when things go to shit, which they inevitably do, especially in this business, I’m the one people turn to.”

I raised one eyebrow and stared right back at him.

Go ahead, smart-ass. I can play your game.

It was second nature to me now. I was used to dealing with musicians and their gigantic egos.

Brodie’s eyes narrowed and I braced myself for a snarky response.

“I personally hired Ivan, so that should tell you everything you need to know,” Greg commented.

“He’s been in this business for as long as you’ve breathed air.

Like he said, he knows his shit, and he’s not going to take any of yours.

You give your all; we do the same. It means success for everyone. ”

The guys nodded.

Well, everyone except for Brodie. He just stood there staring at me like I was a puzzle he couldn’t quite figure out.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other business matters to attend to,” Greg stated and sat back down.

I turned to the band and decided on a friendlier tone.

“How about I take you guys out for lunch, and we can get to know each other?”

“I don’t put out on the first date,” Brodie sneered.

“I don’t date, so no problem,” I replied.

The rumble of laughter from the rest of the guys filtered through the room.

“Shit, Dee, it looks like you’ve met your match.”

That comment came from the blond one, Holloway. He was good-looking, too. In fact, they all were. Holloway also had a confident glint in his eyes that I knew meant trouble.

“We’ll see about that,” Brodie scoffed.

“Yes, we will,” I bit out and motioned to the door. “After you.”

“Favorite band?” Brodie asked me as we headed out of Greg’s office.

“The Smiths.”

“What was the last concert you went to?”

“Does it count if it was a band I managed?”

“Yes.”

“Maze.”

“Cool,” Brodie replied as he walked beside me. “You play?”

“Guitar and piano.”

“You sing?”

“Sometimes.”

“You married?”

“Fuck no.”

Brodie’s bark of laughter stunned me. It was welcome, though, and the mood between us shifted and became a little less hostile. Not entirely, but I didn’t expect to win him over in one conversation.

But I did as promised. I took them to the best barbeque place in the city, and we bonded over our mutual love of smoked meat, beer, and, of course, music.

Brodie and I bantered back and forth, with the rest of the band chiming in here and there.

Later that night, I reviewed their demo again. After meeting them in person, I knew this was the start of something special.

Wayward Lane was going to go all the way, and I would make sure of it.

Their lives would never be the same.

Turns out, neither would mine.

brODIE

There were very few people I liked on sight.

Lusted after? Sure. Lots and lots of men, that is.

Respected? That was a whole different thing. That took time.

Was curious about? That was rare, too.

Until Ivan Cross. Or Van, as he preferred.

Van ticked every fucking box and then some.

Most people in the music biz I’d met over the past seven years were either conceited assholes, like Greg Haddley, or predatory pricks.

Either way, I was always on guard.

Dealing with people like Greg was a necessary evil if you wanted to make it big. His talent roster spoke for itself, but that didn’t mean I trusted him.

But Van? He didn’t try to charm me, and I didn’t sense any ulterior motives.

I don’t know what I’d been expecting in Bandit’s head office that day, but it sure as shit wasn’t Van.

I’d nearly drooled at the first glimpse of him. The rolling swagger of his walk, the confident air when he returned my sass, the denim blue eyes…

Fuck me, those eyes.

In my mind, I was anticipating some creepy dude with a bad combover who wanted to mold us into the next boy band. Not a hot-as-fuck fortysomething who knew more about rock music than I did. A guy as cool as we were.

We were rockers from up north—wild, know-it-all, snarky, twenty-five-year-olds.

Within an hour of meeting, Van had Holls, Ronin, and Faise at ease, and that was no mean feat.

Me, especially. I didn’t warm to anyone I just met.

But something about Van was different.

And my instinct had been spot-on.

In the months after we signed, I discovered Van was unlike any manager I’d ever met.

Not only was he honest and hardworking, but he had an ear for picking a great song.

He also had no problem going to bat for us when we had creative differences with Greg.

Not to mention, Van was one of the few people who called me out on my own shit.

He hadn’t just earned my professional respect. My dick liked him too.

My dick liked a fuckton of hot guys. Van was no exception.

Then there was no time for me to worry about my dick at all.

After that first year we went from a band that booked two local gigs a week to a number-one-selling album. We were either in the recording studio or performing or promoting. Our faces and our lives were splashed all over entertainment news.

Once we had our first hit single, things changed.

I was never short of male attention before, but now? I had guys lining up outside my trailer after concerts, in hotels, in bars, everywhere.

All the fucking time.

It was heady, amazing.

My rock n’ roll dream come true.

My life was just the way I wanted it. I had my music, my best friends as bandmates, my fans, and plenty of hot, sexy men eager for my bed.

What could be better?

If only I’d known…