Surprise Baby for the Billionaire Rockstar (Raising Havoc Bandmates #2)

1. Chapter One

1

Ryker

This is the last place I want to be.

I should be on the road with the guys, drinking alcohol and getting laid by whoever piqued my interest. Instead, I’m inching my way closer and closer to my secluded home in Arizona while my bandmates head to the next destination of our tour – which I should be a part of, by the way. The large stone house comes into view as I round a tight corner, but I glare at the petite form standing on my porch in the distance.

Who the hell is this, and how did they even get here?

There’s a gate at the end of the driveway that is heavily watched, only certain people are allowed on the property and this woman is definitely not someone I know. As I get closer, I watch as her red hair blows across her face at the slight gust of wind and she swats it away with a frown. She’s looking down at her phone, too worried about it to hear me come to a stop in front of the house and that means I’ve got an advantage on her.

My door doesn’t so much as creak when I push it open, so I make sure to shut it softly as I climb out of the Audi – my way of not gaining her attention. She’s tapping her foot nervously along the wooden beams of the porch, looking in each direction except behind her, and I find myself rolling my eyes. She could’ve been killed by now if I were a murderer.

“Can I help you?” I grind out.

She yelps, then spins around with a delicate hand pressed over her heart as she tries to control her rapid breathing. “Son of a bitch, was it necessary to sneak up on me?”

I glare at her and cross my arms in front of me, then cock my head to the side. “My apologies, but I don’t appreciate fans getting onto my property. Just tell me how you got in here so I can have my guys fix the problem.” That’s the only explanation for her being on my porch right now – there’s a hole somewhere on the property line, and she managed to squeeze through it.

She shakes her head, then extends a hand to me after wiping the sweat along her ripped jeans. “No, I’m not here as a fan. I’m Wren Grace, wellness coach at Mindful Solutions Wellness Retreat Center, and you’re Ryker James, correct?”

Most people I meet know me as the lead guitarist for Raising Havoc, so it’s weird that she has to double-check who I am.

It’s not lost on me that she mentioned she’s a wellness coach – which is only a fancier version of a therapist.

I nod curtly, already annoyed that she’s standing in front of me, and she smiles, her hand still hanging in the air as she waits for me to shake it – which I oblige, only so that she’ll put it down and leave me alone.

“If you could excuse me, I’m going to get my security detail to escort you off my property.”

“You shouldn’t do that,” she says, and her hands go up in the air when I narrow my eyes on her, the look forcing her to surrender.

“Look, Ryker, I’ve been sent here to get you through this tough time, and it’s important to me that my clients get the help they deserve.”

You’ve got to be shitting me.

I know things got out of hand at our last tour stop, but did everyone really think I needed a shrink to fix it?

Before I can send her away, an image of the tour date in question flutters across my vision and blurs Wren’s form in front of me.

When Brent finishes the last song, hands high in the air as he smiles at the crowd lined up at his feet, I take a deep breath and throw up a wave before blowing everyone in attendance a kiss – the ladies seem to love this, and it’s become my signature move during the tour.

Evan is the first one to start his trek off the stage, then me behind him, followed by Donny, and in the back is Brent – the crowd adores him, so he always gives the front row extra attention after a concert because he’s gone soft since getting together with Julia.

When I step backstage there’s a blur of movement to my right, but I don’t react in time before someone manages to claw all over Evan’s arms in an attempt to get closer to him. I dart my gaze around the room, searching and praying that a security guard will come over to handle it, but the only people back here are the four of us.

“Hey,” I grind out, fists clenched at my side. “Are you supposed to be back here still?”

For our safety, Mack normally has all the backstage pass holders go to a separate section while we get our bearings from the show before doing the meet and greets. Evan takes a cautious step back and eyes the eager fan in confusion, his head cocked to the side. “Can you please go where the rest of the meet and greet holders are?”

I roll my eyes. Leave it to him not to be rude when someone steps in his personal space – that’s Evan for you. Instead of letting Evan handle the situation, like I likely should, I angle myself closer to one of my best friends and glare at the fan standing in front of him who looks about ready to pounce for the second time. “You heard him, man, get the hell out of here.”

That’s when the fan lunged forward, again, and everything went black after that. It was when I had the fan on the ground, my arm cutting off his airway, that I finally came back to the present, and Mack was pulling me off the guy. His lip was cut, blood dripping slowly down his chin, and he had this crazed look in his eyes that mimicked the anger in mine.

Mack took me to the tour bus, shoved me onto a couch inside, and that’s when he told me that I needed to take a break from the band.

“Are you kidding me? Evan was getting assaulted right in front of me, and I’m the problem?”

“That’s not a job you’re supposed to handle. That’s what we have security for during the tour.”

“Well, that would be great if the security team was actually doing their job,” I grind out, fists clenched at my side. “Come on, Mack, you know this band is my life. We’re in the middle of the tour. Just let me finish it off.”

Mack shakes his head and sighs. “I can’t risk more incidents like this happening. We’ll set up auditions and interviews for your replacement in the morning, then you’ll be heading out to get your head on right.”

Brent and Evan walk onto the tour bus, and I narrow my eyes at the two of them. “Please tell me you don’t agree with this.”

Evan frowns but doesn’t say anything. It’s Brent who clears his throat and says, “Maybe it would be for the best, man.”

“There’s a retreat in Arizona I’ve looked into. They have great reviews, and I think it would be best if you go there for a little while,” Mack says softly.

I glare at him. “I’m not going to live on some retreat.”

“Then I’ll send the wellness coach to you, but that’s the best I can do.”

“Fine,” I spit, looking everyone in the eyes with the best death glare I can manage. “Send the glorified therapist my way. Sign the damn papers.”

The next day, there were images circulating of me and the fan, my face red as a tomato, while he tried desperately to push me off him, and three sets of arms were wrapped around my frame.

I shake the memory away and frown. It’s happened a few times, where I get so angry that I can’t remember what happened between that time frame, but I didn’t think it was bad enough to require someone watching me.

“You must be mistaken, I don’t need a therapist,” I snap, the anger already simmering through my veins. “Thank you for stopping by though, enjoy the rest of your day.”

“Wellness coach,” she corrects immediately. “You’ve got a short fuse, and most of the incidents that have happened with you are ones you can never recollect. If you don’t get this figured out, it could become dangerous for you and the people around you. I only want to help,” she says softly.

“Who sent you here, and how do I know your credentials are real?” I’m not about to let just anyone into my house without the proper verification.

She could easily be trying to get me to trust her, and once she’s inside, she’ll act like the crazed fan I believe her to be.

“Mack sent me. You can research Mindful Solutions if you’d like. I’m on their list of coaches, or I could provide you with their number.”

“What’s the number?”

I quickly dial the number as she rattles it off, then put the phone to my ear and wait for someone to answer.

“Hi, thank you for calling Mindful Solutions; this is Tracie; what can I do for you today?”

“Tracie, this is Ryker James, I’ve got Wren Grace at my home and wanted to confirm her position on your team – along with her qualifications.”

“Of course, Mr. James, give me one second to pull up your file.” I listen to her typing on the other end before she clears her throat.

“Yes, Wren is one of our most trusted counselors here on the retreat and has gotten employee of the month four times in a row with a ninety percent success rate. She’s also been with us for coming up on three years and has worked closely with other celebrities in that time frame with nothing but positive feedback from them.”

I eye Wren standing in front of me and watch as she chews on the inside of her cheek nervously, then nod slowly. “Alright, Tracie, thank you for all of the information.”

Before she can respond, I hang up and shove my phone into the back pocket of my jeans.

“Seems as though you check out,” I mutter, then wave her through the large doorway ahead with a fake smile. “Welcome to my humble abode, but don’t get too comfortable because I’m figuring this shit out.”

She hums at my response, and I notice the corner of her plump lips twitch, but she doesn’t let the smile loose. For some reason I want to see it, which is why I quickly turn away from her and head down one of the long hallways toward my home office. As soon as I have the door shut, I pull my phone out and dial Mack’s number with determination.

There’s no way I’m allowing her to stay in this house and dissect me like one of those stupid biology projects.

“Ryker, I assume you made it to Arizona?”

“That’s the least of your worries right now, Mack, what the hell is going on?”

“Ah,” he says. “You’ve met Wren, then?”

“Yes,” I hiss. “And what I’d love to know is what the hell she’s doing at my house, claiming she’s my therapist. I don’t have a therapist, Mack.”

Mack clears his throat and sighs. “You were the one who agreed to it right after the incident.”

“That was when I thought you were trying to get under my skin, I didn’t think you’d actually go through with it. I don’t need a therapist, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

“There have been too many incidents, Ryker, the guys have worked too hard for you to bring them down. You need to get your shit together, or you risk being kicked out of the band.”

“Kicked out of the band?” I grind out. “You can’t kick me out of the band.”

“If that’s where it leads, I’ll do whatever is necessary to make sure Brent and Evan aren’t brought down by your need to fix shit yourself.”

“This is bullshit, and you know it.” I pound my fist against the thick wood of my desk and shake my head.

He can’t do this, right?

“Just give it a try, Ryker, the band needs you to do this.”

Instead of answering him, I end the call and shove the phone back into my pocket before storming out of the office. My anger is getting worse, and there’s no telling what will happen if I let it, which is why I go straight for the large double doors at the end of the hallway and push through them wildly.

Everything in my home gym is state-of-the-art, but the punching bag is calling my name right now. After I get my boxing gloves onto my hands, I strut over to the bag dangling from the wall and stand in front of it with only one image in my head – Mack’s face.

That’s normally how I cope with my anger, by imagining the person I’m mad at in front of me and doing whatever I want to them until it boils down to a simmer. After that, I normally do the normal stuff – lift weights, squats, push-ups, then finish off with leg exercises. Today, though, an image of Mack’s face doesn’t seem to be doing the trick, and I growl in frustration that my anger is still high.

What if the replacement ends up being better than me, and they decide they’re better off without me in the band?

It’s not going to do me any good to keep thinking like this, but I can’t help it – I’m being taken right back to how my parents treated me when they found out I wanted to pursue music.

I shake my head, not wanting my thoughts to go there right now, and take deep breaths as I head over to the mini fridge, which is stocked with water and Gatorade. I chug one of them without bothering to see what it is. I slam the bottle down, the yellow liquid inside sloshing over the sides as I do.

I’ve told my staff multiple times that I hate the lemon-lime Gatorade, so what the hell is it doing in my fridge?

Just another thing for me to be angry about.

Now that I’ve got myself hydrated, I pull my t-shirt off and toss it onto the floor before making my way back over to the punching bag. Maybe a cold drink is what I needed to cool my rising anger down. This time, when I connect with the punching bag and imagine Mack’s face, it tempers my anger slightly – enough not to have me going Incredible Hulk on everyone around me.

I reach over, taking a break from the punching bag for a brief moment, and swipe the sweat building up on my forehead with a clean towel. I guess I can be thankful that the staff took this part of the job seriously.

Is it really a bad idea to have someone here who can help me through this anger?

I can’t help but think that it makes me look weak, and that’s not who I am. I’m stronger than most, and I don’t need anyone else to tell me that or show me how to be stronger. Do I have it in me to ignore the pleas of my bandmates, though?

Raising Havoc is the only family I’ve come to know ever since my parents decided I wasn’t important enough because I didn’t go to med school like they wanted. The last thing I want to do is hurt them, so maybe it’s best if I deal with the time Wren is here.

It also doesn’t suck that she’s attractive.

Something tells me it would be best if I kept that little thought to myself, she’s going to be working for me now and it would be unprofessional.

Since when do I care about being professional, though?

I run a hand through my sweat-soaked hair and take a deep breath, then snatch my shirt from the floor and head out of the gym. The corner of my mouth tips into a smirk when I notice red hair disappearing around the corner quickly, and I shake my head.

Maybe my little therapist isn’t as professional as she looks after all….