Rock Crush and Roll

CHAPTER 1

TYLER

Tyler’s phone vibrated early Sunday morning, but she was already awake—worrying about the bands she managed and, honestly, everything else. The music industry was more competitive than March Madness, minus the bracket and with zero chance of a champion. It was just . . . endless.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, as there was clearly a problem. Kim wouldn’t be calling at this hour to shoot the shit about the weather.

“Sorry, dude.” Kim called everyone “dude” as a matter of principle.

Tyler groaned. “Let me guess . . .”

“Josh forgot his passport.”

Kim’s voice showed no sign of surprise. It was commonplace for musicians—at least the ones they worked with—to forget something.

“Drummers,” Tyler muttered, rubbing her eyes, not ready to start her day and definitely not with this news. “They’re the worst.”

She meant men in general, but she didn’t need to explain that to her best friend. They’d both been single for eons.

“Yeah. I know, right?” Kim slurped her drink. “But it’s my fault. As their tour manager, it’s my responsibility to check.”

“He’s an adult, isn’t he? I mean—in theory.” Tyler threw back the covers with purpose and launched herself onto the floor. “Hang on, I’m putting you on speaker while I get dressed.”

“Josh doesn’t even have a driver’s license. Otherwise he could’ve used it to board the plane.”

Tyler snorted. “That’s probably for the best.”

“At least you’re only handling their day-to-day . . .” Kim’s voice trailed off into the ether. “Shit. These earbud thingies keep slipping. Dude, I can’t believe Sebastien agreed to sign these hellions.”

Hearing her boss’s name before coffee was almost too much to bear. Tyler yanked the elastic from her topknot, a small wreath of hair tangling around her fingers.

“Fucker pawned them off on me, didn’t he? I guarantee he didn’t tell the Westgrays they’d be dealing with me. I’d never have taken them on willingly.”

“What’s that stupid thing he’s always saying?” Kim asked.

“More pucks on the net.”

“Yeah. Sebastien’s an idiot.” An airport announcement blared in the background. “So is Josh, for that matter. I’m looking right at him—unbelievable. He’s sprawled across an entire row of seats while people are standing. I’d send him home, but our flight leaves in, like, two hours.”

“Where are his roommates?”

“He’s tried calling and texting, but they’re probably still sleeping.”

More like passed out.

“Fucking hell,” Tyler said after a beat.

“Sorry,” Kim said. “I’ve been too easy on them. No more Mr. Nice Guy.”

“That’s a great song. I love Alice Cooper. Hey, who knew all that babysitting I did as a teenager was practice for coddling musicians. But seriously, don’t worry about it. I’m more annoyed than anything. Does he at least know where his passport is?”

“He thinks it’s in the kitchen. Oh, and the side door’s open—well, more like broken—but text if you can’t find it.”

“Will do. I’ll let you know when I’m five minutes out.”

Tyler twisted her hair back into a topknot and checked the time.

She glanced at her Shih Tzu rescue as he slept at the foot of her bed.

Sneaking out of her room wasn’t an option since Rory’s hearing was almost god-like.

Plus he clung to her like plastic wrap because his previous family had surrendered him to a local shelter, simply because he didn’t bark.

It hardly made him defective. She wanted a little buddy, not a guard dog to protect her.

“Hi, Ror!” Did everyone give their dog a nickname? Rory Bear, Rorster, and Ror-Ror were her favorite things to call him.

With a sudden jerk, the dog lifted his head, metal tags clinking. He gave her a look that clearly said, What the hell, Mommy?

“Time to get up!”

With no time to spare, Tyler buckled Rory into the passenger seat of her rusted-out SUV. The manufacturer had called the color Radiant Red, but these days, Lackluster Red felt more honest.

Raindrops speckled the windshield. She flicked on the wipers.

People called it “Rain City” for a reason. It fucking poured here. And the worst was yet to come—it was only the end of September.

Tyler had lived in Vancouver for over a decade, but her home was still Winnipeg.

As the saying goes: you can take the girl out of Manitoba—

But no one ever says that.

Tyler zipped along Commercial Drive, pretending she was a Formula 1 driver. She’d binged Drive to Survive last summer and was now fully obsessed with every team, every rivalry. Anytime someone mentioned pole position, her mind went straight to the gutter.

She pulled into Josh’s driveway and left the engine running. Having a shoddy alternator, she couldn’t run the risk of her truck not starting.

The Stranger Things theme played in her head as she inched open the door and crept into the kitchen.

Gross.

The stench of wet cigarettes hit her first, followed by the sight of beer splatter staining the walls like some kind of frat house crime scene. Pinching her nose, she scanned for the drummer’s passport.

How do people live like this?

She stepped over a graveyard of empty beer cans, the floor sticky beneath her sneakers. The remnants of last night’s beer pong battle were on full display—red Solo cups lined up like bowling pins at both ends of the kitchen table.

There, half-buried under the chaos, she spotted it: a dark blue booklet with a gold emblem. With one determined tug, she unstuck Josh’s passport from the table and held it between two fingers, like Rory’s poop bag.

Twenty minutes later, Tyler drove up the ramp to the airport’s Departures level. Thank god—Kim was already at the drop-off marker, her bright pink hair standing out like a flamingo in a crowd of beige.

Tyler rolled down the passenger-side window as she pulled to the curb.

“Dude, their flight just got delayed an hour,” Kim said, reaching for Josh’s passport. She grinned at Rory, who was curled up like a neck pillow, sound asleep. With his black-and-white markings, he looked like a miniature panda.

“Of course it did,” Tyler muttered.

It was a running joke in the office that Air Canada wasn’t happy unless you were unhappy.

“Rory, wake up. It’s Kim!”

“Hey, buddy,” Kim whispered. Rory thumped his tail in lazy approval. He liked everyone, but he had a definite soft spot for Mom’s bestie.

“Any plans today?” Kim asked.

Tyler glanced at her watch. “Working from home.”

Kim rolled back the rim of her coffee cup. “You’re supposed to be working for the weekend, not on it.”

“Says the person going on tour.”

Kim chucked her cup into the recycling can. “Believe me, the Westgrays aren’t on my top-ten list.”

“I still miss Letterman,” Tyler said, absentmindedly picking at the worn vinyl on her steering wheel. “The Westgrays are super high maintenance. You’re going to have to burp and feed them.”

“I draw the line at bathing them.” Kim’s dark brown eyes lit up when she laughed. “Anyway, enough about them. Dude, if you ever want to meet someone you’ll have to put yourself back out there.”

Online dating was simply out of the question.

Last year, while standing in line at a coffee shop, Tyler had watched in amazement as a guy who was barely a five swiped left on girls who were tens.

If that was the standard, what hope did any woman have unless she came with a ring light and professional retouching?

Tyler grinned. “I know you haven’t had a date this year.”

Kim covered a yawn with the back of her hand. “True, but I don’t want a baby—or a husband.”

“You’re young. There’s lots of time.”

“Try telling that to my mother.”

Mrs. Tanaka didn’t approve of her daughter’s line of work or her pink hair. Kim often joked about being the child of hardworking immigrants. Her parents had expected her to be married with children by now, not telling bands what time they had to meet in the hotel lobby.

Tyler tapped her lips. “You know, I’m thinking about having a kid on my own.”

“Like, with a sperm donor or sex with a stranger?”

“Shh!” She held her index finger to her lips and whispered, “I’m thinking about freezing my eggs, but it’s ten grand.”

“Fuck it.” Kim shrugged one shoulder. “Just go to the Roxy.”

“Hard pass.” Tyler gave Rory a boop on his nose. “Even the bartenders are musicians there. No fucking thanks.”

The Roxy Cabaret was famous for last-call hookups and morning regrets. It was no secret that hockey teams and touring artists always made a stop there.

“Oh—shit! I forgot to tell you,” Tyler said suddenly. “My indie band landed that opening slot.”

“I heard! Those guys are all over Insta. I love that name— Yestown.” Kim tapped Josh’s passport against the truck’s windowsill. “Any last words of wisdom for these knuckleheads?”

Tyler shook her head. “I don’t have that kind of time.” She sat up straighter, gripping the steering wheel like she was bracing for a whiteout. “Tell Josh not to ask me for favors—he’s on my shit list.”

Kim stepped back from the curb. “I’ll tell him to send you flowers.”

“He shouldn’t waste his money. I saw his house.” Tyler honked twice. Rory stirred in the passenger seat, ears flapping. “Have a safe trip. Text when you land.”

Her babysitting job was a permanent position . . . just without benefits.

Driving home from the airport Tyler sucked in a breath of air.

Shit. The invoices.

The office had been chaos all week, and somehow, they’d slipped off her radar. With month-end looming, she needed to cross them off her to-do list before morning.

“A quick detour, then home,” she told Rory, scratching him behind the ears. “Who wants to go to the office?”

Rory wagged his tail. He was always down for an adventure.

The Sebastien Dumas Management office was located in the sketchiest part of town. Last month several random stabbings had taken place in the Downtown Eastside, putting everyone’s safety in jeopardy.

Tyler parked in the office’s secured garage and climbed two flights of stairs. She unclenched the keys from between her knuckles and unlocked the door, punching in the alarm code 2-1-1-2.