Rockstar Secret (All Access #4)

Chapter 1

RIO

"Good morning, sleepy Cinderella."

The sharp, sarcastic voice of my manager, Prince Michael, cuts through my slumber. "Did we have enough beauty sleep?"

It takes a moment to remember where I am. My fingers glide over cool silk bedding for the warm flesh of Jill and Joan.

Those wild twins I took back to my hotel following the after-party.

They’re gone.

“Coffee,” I croak, rising against the satin headboard.

The mirrored walls of the luxurious suite reflect a groggy, disheveled image I’ve come to know too well.

The aftermath of the hard partying lifestyle I've taken up of late.

Prince Michael snaps his fingers like he's genuine royalty.

A hotel employee steps forward with my steaming brew, hot and black.

Once I swig it down, I take in the scene.

Prince Michael is his usual elegant self today, dressed like a ’60s dandy in a purple corduroy jacket.

His black hair is slicked back perfectly, not a strand out of place.

Beside him, curly-haired blond drummer Keith James looks offensively fresh for this early hour.

And to my right stands my bestie and lead guitarist, Steven Smith, arms crossed, guitar-calloused fingers pushing his dark hair back.

All three stare at me with barely repressed hostility.

"Okay. Give it to me straight. What did I do last night?"

"Hey man, it’s what you didn’t do," Steven says, flashing his phone in my face so I can see the gossip column headline: “Rocker Rio Wilder Does It Again.”

I squint at it, but it's impossible to read the tiny text.

"Did what again?"

I've supposedly done everything from trashing hotel rooms to dating aliens.

"You guys never believed these rags before. What's different this time?"

"Rio, you don’t remember dancing with a snake?" Keith says. “The audience exploded, man. Cops came and—”

Suddenly, it all comes back.

The guy in the front row pulling a snake out of his bag when I belted the first bars of our latest hit, Python Man.

The crowd screaming, hands in the air, spotlights bouncing off the creature’s scales. The glittering, hypnotic movement of the snake's body as it twisted and writhed.

Buzzed on pre-performance booze and caught in the hypnotic, otherworldly pulse of the song, I remember accepting the slithering creature.

“What was so wrong about dancing with a snake? I thought it would build more buzz for Python Man. We need the publicity, guys.”

Steven’s thick eyebrows rise in astonishment.

“The audience got carried away. Some stormed the stage. Cops threatened to book you for lewd behavior and public drunkenness. Thankfully, Prince Michael sorted it out.”

I let my head fall back against the pillows. Was I drunk? Hard to tell.

Drinking before a show is a relatively new habit, recently acquired to numb the pain of my beloved mother's death.

"Guys, guys," I say, gesturing with the hand that isn’t glued to my coffee.

"It’ll pass. I’m a bad-boy rockstar. Part Mick Jagger, part Jim Morrison if the press can be believed. Expected behavior."

"Not this time," Prince Michael says. His voice drops the playful edge. “And not ever again. You’ve got to get back on track, Rio.”

“And who’s going to make me?”

“I am, for one,” Steven says, gesturing to the others. His jaw tightens. “We’ve built our lives around you. For better or worse. You fuck up, and our careers are over.”

The words land hard. Steven doesn’t throw terms like “for better or worse” around lightly.

“We have a good thing going, Rio,” Keith adds, drumming his sticks on my nightstand for emphasis. “We can’t blow it before we make our first gold record.”

“The sponsor for the Las Vegas concert this weekend threatened to cancel when he read the tabloids,” Prince Michael says. “It took every ounce of my considerable charm to get him to give you one more chance.”

Prince Michael’s charm may be considerable, but he’s more of a glossed-up pauper than prince. Beneath the grandeur of his given name, he’s just an over-the-top promoter from New Jersey.

Two years ago, he caught our act at a NYC club. Since then, he’s single-handedly brought us from obscurity to stardom.

Well, the brink of stardom, anyway.

Like Keith says, we don’t have a gold record yet. Just groupies galore and a string of sold-out shows. Money in, money out. Like water through a sieve.

“Good,” I say to the faces still glaring at me. “We’ll play Vegas. What’s the problem?”

“You,” Prince Michael says, pointing the talon-sharp nail of his forefinger at me.

“The sponsor demanded to know why you were drunk onstage. I explained that before the show, you had a little too much ‘Champagne’ while celebrating your engagement.”

I blink. “Engagement? Who’s the lucky lady?”

“That’s what we have to decide,” Prince Michael says, his black eyes flicking around the partially trashed room from last night’s party.

A dress hangs from a lampshade. Another lies draped over the sofa.

"Your choice in women is questionable. We need the proper girl to show you’ve corrected your ‘bad boy’ ways.”

"What?!" My voice cracks around the word. "You’re getting me hitched?!"

“We need to play down your meltdown. Change the narrative. Give the media and your fans something positive,” he says, warming to his own plot. “The world loves a redemption arc.”

“Who is she?”

"I was thinking Heidi Josephs," Prince Michael says, naming this month’s “it” model. "

She made last month’s Vogue cover. I think you two would work well together. You’re both tall, dark, and stormy looking."

"That’s the last type of girl he needs," Steven says flatly.

“Agreed,” Keith adds. "Wrong for his image. He needs a Cinderella type—blonde, innocent, wide blue eyes. The kind of 'deserving girl' fairy tales talk about."

"And where do we find one?" Prince Michael asks, already sounding like he's calculating angles.

“I’ve got the perfect girl,” Steven says. “And she’ll do what I say.”

“And why is that?” Prince Michael asks.

“Because she’s my kid sister.”

“God, no,” I groan, collapsing back into the bed. “Not Maddie.”

Images flash in my mind. Maddie as a gawky teen, hanging on every chord I played.

Then Maddie four years ago, when her ‘surprise visit’ to me and Steven at Harvard ended on a sour note I’ve been trying to forget.

Not that Steven knows anything about that night. Maddie made sure of that. And warned me to keep it quiet, too.

“I remember briefly meeting her,” Prince Michael says, turning to Steven. “Nice girl. But what makes her right to pose as Rio’s fiancée?”

“She has every quality Rio lacks,” says Steven. "She's wholesome. Down to earth. Even worked as an 'official Cinderella' at Disney World one summer.”

I turn to Prince Michael. He’s actually buying it.

“And our sponsor will love that she teaches autistic kids. Especially since he's directing a huge hunk of the concert's proceeds to autism research.”

“No way,” I cut in, flashing back to our last clash in the dorms at Harvard. “Find another Cinderella. Anyone but Maddie. Besides, she'd never agree to being my fake fiancé.”

“Oh yes she will,” Steven replies with iron certainty. “And she’ll meet us in Vegas right after we land.”

I clench my empty coffee mug, a knot of unease twisting inside. Maddie as my fake fiancée? Deadlier than dancing with that damn snake.