Excerpt from Living on the Edge
Chapter One
Angus
I’ve always had a thing for redheads.
Don’t get me wrong, I love all women, in all shapes, sizes, and hair color, but there’s something about a redhead. Maybe it’s the temper—cause they all seem to have one—but nine times out of ten, if there are dozens of beautiful women in a room, I’ll pick the redhead.
The one currently standing about ten feet from me is smokin’ hot.
Long hair the color of a summer sunset, even longer jean-clad legs, and a great set of tits. She’s one of those women who makes me do stupid shit, but despite being aware of it, I give her a long, lazy once over anyway.
I’m a sweaty, drenched mess after my band’s set, but that doesn’t deter most women after a show.
There are perks to being a musician.
And I can be charming when I want to.
The only question is, do I want to?
I’m halfway done with Ayn Rand’s “The Fountainhead,” and my e-reader is calling my name. A shower, something to eat, and a good book sounds like a great way to wind down tonight.
Being balls-deep in the redhead over there also sounds like a good time. I just have to decide.
And pretty quickly, since she’s currently heading in my direction.
“Hi, Angus.” She smiles. “I’m Ryleigh Tucker. I’m with Rock Harder Magazine and wanted to introduce myself. I’ll be on tour with you guys for the next few weeks.”
What. The. Fuck.
My dick deflates like I was unceremoniously dumped in an ice bath.
There’s going to be a reporter embedded with us for the next month or so?
Why didn’t I know about this?
I frown even as I obligingly shake her hand.
“The show was awesome.” The comment seems genuine.
“Thanks.” I smile politely.
I’ve never been a fan of the press. They’re a necessary evil but I keep my distance, and when I’m forced to interact, I’m usually vague and abrupt. Since this particular journalist is hot, I need to get away from her stat. Before I let my little head take over my big one.
I also need to find Sasha and figure out why no one told me they were embedding a journalist on the tour.
“I’m looking forward to getting to know the band,” Ryleigh says after an awkward moment of silence.
“We’re actually pretty boring,” I say drolly. “I mean, outside of the music.”
She laughs and it’s a rich, hearty sound that normally would get my dick hard all over again.
But I know better than to let myself get stupid with a journalist.
Even one as hot as this one.
That’s the last fucking thing I need.
“Oh, I think there will be plenty to talk about,” she says.
“Yeah, like what?”
“Well, I could start with why you made such a big deal out of being an indie band and then signing with Hart Records.” She meets my gaze head on.
Great.
This one has balls.
And that’s a topic I don’t want to talk about. Our lead singer, Jonny Gold, is the king of PR. He loves talking to the press and he’s good at it. That’s why he does seventy-five percent of our interviews.
We’d known this subject might come up, but we really hoped it would fade away.
Apparently not.
“It was a business decision,” I say carefully, since I can’t just walk away. “On our own, we couldn’t open for a big-name act like Nobody’s Fool. We couldn’t get the same airplay. And frankly, we weren’t making enough money to survive. At some point, you have to weigh your beliefs with reality. We had standards, and we stuck to them to the degree that made sense. Signing on with Casey Hart was a smart decision, from where we’re sitting, and Hart Records isn’t like the others out there.”
She nods. “I guess that makes sense. But so many bands tried to follow your lead, striking out on their own, using social media to their advantage. And then you sold out.”
I’m not indulging this line of questioning any more than necessary.
“Sometimes,” I say, rubbing the towel down my face before continuing, “you have to use common sense. Casey Hart came to us with a phenomenal deal. We didn’t sell out—we moved up. Now, if you’ll excuse me, we’ll have to continue this conversation at another time.” I turn and stalk in the opposite direction.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Hopefully, I didn’t say anything stupid, but that’s the one thing we’ve had to deal with since the incredible deal that took us from starving Minneapolis musicians to the opening act for a platinum-selling band. Not to mention the release of our first full album.
Hart Records has been amazing, both to us and for us, so I hate that there are people out there who think we sold out.
“What was that?” Our rhythm guitarist, Tate Jeffries, falls into step next to me.
“Did you know they were embedding a journalist from XXX Magazine with us?” I demand.
“No.” He shakes his head. “Why? Is that who the redhead is?”
“Yeah. And the first thing she does is ask why we sold out by signing with Hart Records.”
He grunts. “Maybe she should pay our bills for a while and then talk to us about that.”
He’s right but I still feel a moment of discomfiture. “Well, we did play the indie card pretty hard, the whole time we’ve been together. Right up until we signed. I mean, how many interviews did we do talking about exactly that?”
“Yeah, I know, but it was a business decision. We changed course. Are we not allowed to try something new?”
“We are, but while we talked about the indie route endlessly, we’ve opted not to address the change at all.”
He’s quiet for a minute. “Well, if journalists are starting to ask questions that aggressively, maybe we need to do that then.”
“I don’t know how many journalists are talking about it, but I’m going to call Sasha.” Sasha Petrov is our manager, as well as Casey Hart’s daughter, so we have a fairly direct line to the record company if we need it.
Normally, we don’t.
They treat us well. Better than well. We got a small advance, and we get per diems on tour so we’re not starving to death or worried about buying deodorant.
Not that I’ll ever starve to death, but the rest of the guys don’t have it as easy as I do. They just don’t know my situation. Hell, no one knows except management and my drum tech, and Bobby and I have been friends since college.
Jesus.
Guilt creeps through me for the millionth time.
My band doesn’t even know my real name.
But there’s nothing I can do about that tonight.
“So… are we going to party tonight?”
“I have a date with Ayn tonight,” I reply, trying to keep a straight face.
He stares at me. “Seriously, dude? You’d rather spend the night with some dead philosopher than a flesh-and-blood woman? You scare me sometimes, man.”
I laugh. “I scare myself sometimes. But books make me think, and it’s a nice break. I can do rock and roll ninety percent of the time—but then I need something else to balance out the crazy.”
He squints, like he can’t understand what I’m saying. “Remind me again how and why we’re friends?”
“Shut up.” I shake my head. “You could read a book once in a while and expand your horizons.”
“I have a bachelor’s degree in social work,” he says dryly. “I did plenty of reading in college. Now all I care about is music. I can read when I retire. In like, fifty years.”
“I don’t read,” Our bass player, Mick Lips, deadpans. “It rots your brain.”
“What are you fuckers whining about?” Jonny comes bounding up to us and throws an arm around each of our shoulders. “And who the fuck is thinking about retirement at twenty-five? What the hell is going on with you?”
Tate laughs. “Dr. Strange here wants to go back to his room and read—I was explaining that reading is for retirement.”
“Or long bus rides,” Jonny agrees, “but that is not now . Not tonight. I heard about a party, and we’re going.”
I manage not to roll my eyes.
Parties mean trouble.
Sex, drugs, alcohol, and whatever other fuckery we get up to.
Don’t get me wrong—I like to party.
I wouldn’t be the drummer for a hard rock band like Crimson Edge if I didn’t.
But sometimes I also enjoy peace and quiet.
Because when we party, we party hard.
That’s where my need for balance comes in.
The last time we went to a party, we drank and smoked for nearly thirty-six hours straight. We never slept and went right on stage for the next gig. And I paid for it for several days afterward.
Unlike the rest of the band, I’m not twenty-five anymore.
Of course, they don’t know that about me either.
I feel another all-too-familiar twinge of guilt.
Secrets have a way of blowing up in your face, but it’s been three years. How the hell do I come clean now? It’s like everything they think they know about me is a lie, and we’re deeply invested in this band. And each other.
What happens if I blow things up?
Unlike me, they don’t have anything to fall back on.
No money, no back-up careers, nothing.
This is their shot.
It’s different for me.
Music was only supposed to be a distraction, a fun way to piss off my family.
I never imagined these guys—and this band—would become not just friends, but family. Real family. The family you can count on when times are tough, and the family you celebrate with when things are good.
My biological family isn’t like that.
I love some of them, mostly because I have to, but I don’t like most of them.
Playing rock and roll was my version of fuck you to them and their expectations.
It wasn’t supposed to turn into an actual career.
Or getting signed to the same record label as platinum-selling bands like Onyx Knight and Nobody’s Fool. My bandmates are talented but young, reckless, and a little wild. Definitely rough around the edges.
But they’re good human beings.
Honestly, the best people I know.
And I’ve essentially betrayed them.
“Dude, get your head out of Ayn Rand’s ass and pay attention!” Jonny nudges me with his elbow hard enough to make me grunt.
“Knock it off,” I mutter, shaking my head.
Jonny just laughs. “Come on, lighten up. Have you met the journalist who’s going to be touring with us? Let’s take her out and get her drunk tonight.”
“Why would we do that?” I ask in confusion. “She has a job to do.”
“Yeah, but she’s not on tour with a group of monks—she’s on tour with Crimson Edge. Do we want our fans to read about us curled up with Ayn Rand every night or seeing who we really are?”
“But reading Ayn Rand is who I am,” I protest.
It doesn’t matter, though.
When Jonny makes up his mind about something, there’s no stopping him. He can be a force of nature. It’s one of many things that makes him an amazing frontman.
Unfortunately for me, it also makes it impossible to tell him no.
My date with Ayn is going to have to wait.