My Rockstar Crush (Scandalous Billionaires #4)

Chapter 1

Chapter one

Carissa

You’d think that having basically lived intimately with four rockstars and their whole entourage for the past seven years, I would have seen some shit go down, and I suppose I have, but my skills as a nurse have been required very few times.

I’m pretty much just along for the ride, and what a ride it’s been.

Wilder’s Peril is one of those bands that doesn’t fit into any category.

They’re not punk, and they would rather die than ever write a love or pop song.

They also aren’t hard enough to be straight rock, and they aren’t out there enough to be wholly alternative.

They don’t fit into any neat boxes. I think that’s why they’ve gained such a following all over the world.

They wear eyeliner and leather, sport a whole lot of bare chests, and ooze sex appeal, but at the same time, they’re relatable.

They’re living the dream, but somehow, they’re real.

Even though they could act like demigods, they don’t.

They wear what they want, make the music they want, say and think what they want, and feel what they want to feel.

For a group of performers, they’re some of the most genuine men on the planet.

None more so than Jackson Wilder.

He writes songs that could stir the devil himself, but in his personal life, he’s about as sweet as they come.

The rest of the guys follow suit because everyone knows what happened to Wilder when he was just a kid. He doesn’t do the rockstar lifestyle because he can’t, and he prefers that the people around him try to live as regular a life as they can.

There might be parties thrown by the label or executive staff that the band is invited to, but they always behave.

I can’t say if it’s been that way since the start for them or if they grew up and out of it.

In the past seven years, I’ll say that Luke and Jameson have been through a few relationships.

The worst I’ve ever seen them come out of anything is with a hangover from the night before.

Matt got married three years ago. He now has two loves in his life. His wife and his guitar. Wilder was once up there too. The two of them used to be closer than brothers, but now there are cracks.

They’ve been there for a while.

Most nights, touring on the road is surprisingly boring and uneventful. Tonight isn’t going to be one of those nights.

Our bus, following the band’s bus on the final leg of their North American tour, was flagged down, and everything came to a standstill on the side of the road in rural Nevada at three in the morning.

Apparently, Wilder, who is the lead singer, founding member of the band, and a pretty damn vital and important part of tomorrow’s show, is sick.

Like, not just an upset tummy or a headache, but really sick.

Sick enough that, for once, I was asked to step in.

The reason I got hired in the first place was that Wilder hates going to hospitals.

Even regular doctors freak him out. He compromised and let someone from his PR team hire a private nurse to be on hand, ostensibly for the band, but everyone knows I’m just here for him.

Where Wilder goes, I go. That includes planes, trains, and tour buses.

When he’s actually at home, I’m on call.

Home for him is Sonoma, California, so that’s where I’ve basically been living since I was hired.

I grew up in the Bay Area, and San Francisco is only forty-five minutes north, so it wasn’t much of a move, but if we’re talking lifestyle change…

I wasn’t worried about moving houses when I had to take that on.

It might be summer, and we might be in Nevada, but there’s a chill wind.

After getting pulled from my coffin-like little bunk, which was warm and snuggly and all closed in, and given three seconds to get onto the other bus—alright, it was more than that and certainly more than enough time for me to get dressed, find my shoes, and tell Gerry the road manager where my supplies were—I’m still a little bit mussed and sweaty.

I’m alert, though.

And worried.

If Matt had the whole train of buses stop, then something is wrong.

Benny opens the door for me immediately.

“Howdy, Carissa.” He has a southern drawl, even though he was born and raised in LA.

He self-professes a love of all things western, and I guess that’s translated over to his drawl.

Sixty-some odd years of watching old movies will do that to a person, I guess. “You go right on in.”

He steps out of the bus, whistling. He’s one of the chillest guys I know, and he’s a great driver. Nice doesn’t even begin to cover it. Benny is good for the guys. He’s a little bit like a father figure, and on the road, someone like that is much needed.

I expect absolute chaos on the bus, but I walk in to find Matt lounging in one of the leather recliners with the seat out and his arms crossed behind his head. Luke and Jameson are at the table eating ice cream sandwiches and laughing quietly about a video they’re watching on Jameson’s phone.

No one looks concerned.

Jameson turns around on the bench seat, phone in one hand, ice cream sandwich in the other. He’s a drummer, so he’s used to being heavily coordinated. “Hey, Carissa. You should check this out. Someone made a video of their dog pooping in reverse.”

“It really is great,” Luke adds.

“You guys are fucking nasty,” Matt argues. “I need to bleach my eyes out after one watch, and they’ve seen it multiple times now. While eating.”

“What needs bleach is that bunk,” Luke fires back before he shoves half the ice cream sandwich into his mouth. “Jack ruined his favorite bwankie.”

First of all, only the people closest to Wilder call him Jackson, and there are three people on this earth who can call him Jack.

Hearing his beautiful name, with all the trust implied to even be allowed to say it, abused in that sarcastic tone, makes me want to march straight up to Luke and press his chipmunk cheeks together so the ice cream sandwich fires out onto the table.

Second? What the fuck? I knew the band was splintering. I might be a pretty useless member of their team, but since I’ve been around for so long, even on the periphery, I can see it. The rest of the world, including the band’s label, has no idea there’s any turmoil.

Those tiny fractures? They’re turning into straight-up breaks that can’t be healed.

Tomorrow’s show is the last one of an almost year-long world tour.

For the past three months, the band has been playing North America, but just because they’re mostly in the States doesn’t mean they’ve had any chance to be at home.

This isn’t a case of “They’ve been around each other too long and the company is wearing thin, so give them a few weeks, and they’ll be right and tight again”.

The problems run much, much deeper.

When the break happens, it may be permanent.

I can’t be the only one dreading what’s coming, but I haven’t heard so much as a whisper from anyone else. Everyone is scared to talk about it. No one wants to put it out there.

“Shut the fuck up, Luke,” Matt snaps, and not playfully.

Luke rolls his eyes. “Why bother defending him? It’s not like he’s done you any favors lately.”

“Where is Wilder?” I ask, crossing my arms around myself, but this time not to block out the wind.

I have my college hoodie on and my jeans from yesterday.

They were the first clothes I found, and they’re not fresh or unwrinkled.

I’m not really a makeup person, but I’m currently sporting zero and probably am trending way further to the side of total bedhead mess than I am an astute and capable medical professional.

“Same place he always is. Stealing the thunder and the spotlight.” Jameson flicks the video back on. Unfortunately, I catch the last part, where the poor dog is indeed pooping in reverse.

I stand with Matt on the bleaching his eyes comment.

“He’s in the bathroom,” Matt supplies with a shrug that is far colder than it should be.

“He woke us all up when he puked all over his bunk. I helped him get to the toilet, but that’s all I’m doing tonight.

Word to the wise… that bunk doesn’t need cleaning.

It needs an exorcism. I told him not to eat that fucking gas station chicken at the last stop.

Get ice cream, I said. Don’t be a dumbass, I said.

That chicken looks like it’s eight years old. Did he listen? Yeah, no. He didn’t.”

“He has food poisoning?” I gape at all three of them in turn. “You have a show tomorrow evening! You’ve never, ever canceled one before.”

I get three blank stares and a whole lot of it’s not our problem vibes.

I knew things were bad, but I had no idea this level of spite could exist between men who used to be the closest of friends.

Matt and Wilder have known each other since they were ten years old.

“I’ll deal with the bunk,” Benny drawls in his slow, practiced speech, coming up behind Matt.

I startle. When the heck did he get back onto the bus?

He flashes me a bright smile from under his handlebar mustache.

I’m not a fan of facial hair, and definitely not that kind, but it suits Benny just fine.

He’s just about bald and never wears hats to cover it up.

He once told me that they interfere with his driving, even when he’s not driving.

He has a great sense of humor like that.

He makes up for not doing the western hat thing by wearing a collared shirt that is just about always western themed, a tight pair of jeans, and scuffed-up old cowboy boots.

The buses pulled over at a rest stop at the side of the freeway. They obviously waited a little bit to find one before they called over to my bus. I wish they had called right away. I would have been awake, alert, and ready.

Meanwhile, poor Wilder has been dumped in the bathroom, all alone. Has anyone even freaking checked on him?