3. Ridiculously Hot Musicians
3
RIDICULOUSLY HOT MUSICIANS
MAGGIE
Wouldn’t Wanna Be Like You By Sheryl Crow
I ’ve always looked forward to the beginning of summer. We’ve been going to Malibu for our annual summer kick off weekend since forever. Dylan and his two dads come, Jack and Erin’s son, Jesse, and a few of their closest friends. We’re an unconventional family, but a family just the same. Through the years we’d go our separate ways, and this weekend always brought us back together.
But this summer is not starting off the way I’d hoped.
With the smell of horses and dust fully in my wake, I watch the waves crash against the shore in a rhythm too soothing for the storm brewing inside me. The expansive view from the backyard of Jack’s Malibu home sprawls out before me, all golden sands and blue skies, yet my mood is the complete opposite. I can’t shake the weight pressing on my chest, and despite the sunshine, everything feels gloomy.
“Hey, cheer up,” Dylan says, throwing an arm casually over my shoulder. “It’s a beautiful day.” He doesn’t look like the CEO of Stonewall records, just a twenty-four-year-old kid with too much gel in his hair and a lip ring.
“Easy for you to say,” I shoot back, fingers twirling the corner of my hair restlessly. “You’re not going out on tour in two days with a bunch of strangers, rambling around on a bus. Sounds like my very own horror story,” I reply, feigning a shudder for comedic effect.
“Hey, Velvet Drift is up and coming,” Dylan protests, which doesn’t make it any better.
“Never heard of them,” I mumble, uninterested.
“You will, and the whole world will too,” Dylan smiles confidently.
“Look, if you’re gonna torture me, then at least give me a cool band like Paper Skies or Rag Doll to document,” I scoff.
“Oh please, you’re so overdramatic,” Joey pipes up from her spot in the sand. Her blonde hair tumbles over her shoulder, and she gives me a patronizing smile that suggests my melodrama is slightly absurd. “It’s an adventure!”
Even though she sounds enthusiastic for me, I know she’s just as shaken up about me leaving as I am. We’re twins. We’ve never been apart from each other for very long. I lived at home while I went to film school. We still share the same room for God’s sake.
“Whatever,” I quip back. “I’m sure this tour will involve food poisoning.” I’m sure there will be amazing performances, but I’m not giving them the satisfaction.
“Now you’re making it sound like lots of fun,” Jesse interjects sarcastically, settling into the sand next to Joey. He’s the perfect blend of both his parents with beautiful hazel eyes that offset his wavy dark hair. Not only is he a talented musician, he’s not bad to look at, which in the music business is a lethal combination.
With his dark curls brushing against Joey’s shoulder, he shoots me a playful grin. “Trust me, it’ll be awkward, but it could lead to some entertaining footage.”
“Awkward doesn’t even begin to cover it and if I’m going to document these guys, it would be nice to at least know who I’m working with.” I shoot Dylan a look. “They could all be terrible, obnoxious people!” I throw my hands up in exasperation, and they all chuckle like it’s the funniest thing they’ve heard all day.
“Dylan, seriously,” I press, because he’s been tight-lipped on who these guys are since he offered me the gig when I visited him at his office weeks ago. “Give me something. Anything. What genre are they? What are their names? Do they have, like, a criminal record? Should I be bringing pepper spray?”
Dylan snorts, shaking his head. “Relax, Maggie. They’re not criminals. Just… musicians.” He pauses, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “And one of them is ridiculously hot.”
“Ridiculously hot musicians are the worst kind of musicians,” I say, already picturing some egotistical pretty boy who thinks the world revolves around him and his guitar.
Jesse rolls his eyes good-naturedly.
“Here we go again with Maggie’s musician vendetta.” He nudges Joey playfully, and she lets out a soft giggle that sends a ripple through my chest.
“Clearly I’m not talking about you,” I say, batting my eyelashes dramatically at Jesse.
“Thanks, I think,” he says.
“But it’s not a vendetta, it’s a survival instinct.” I retort. “Besides, Dylan’s vague description is only fueling my suspicions. ‘Ridiculously hot’ could mean anything—a tattooed rocker with a penchant for pyrotechnics or a brooding poet with a man-bun and a fragile ego.” I shudder dramatically, earning another round of laughter from my makeshift support group.
Dylan just smirks. “You’ll see.”
I sigh, already feeling the walls closing in around me. This summer, it seems, is destined to be a blend of the unknown, with a side of “ridiculously hot” trouble. Honestly, it’s probably Dylan’s way of punishing me for running him over with my monster truck power wheels when we were kids.
I’m lost in my own thoughts when Morgan Clemson storms out onto the patio. Her long dark hair whips around her shoulders and her fierce green eyes zone in on Dylan. I’m pretty sure the last time I saw her was a few months ago at her father’s funeral.
“Dylan!” she shouts, her voice sharp and accusatory as she stops in front of him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about?” Dylan stands, kicking up sand with his feet.
“Don’t play dumb with me,” she snaps, placing her hands on her hips. “You’re trying to take Left Turn Records from me!”
Dylan holds his hands out in a placating gesture. “Morgan, listen, I’m not trying to take anything from you. But with your father gone, Left Turn’s in trouble. I’m just trying to help.”
Morgan’s eyes widen, her face going paler as if that’s possible. “What do you mean, in trouble?”
Dylan sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Your father was the heart and soul of that place and without him…”
Morgan demands, her voice rising. “You think I’m not capable of running my father’s legacy?”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” Dylan tries to explain, but Morgan cuts him off.
“I know exactly what you’re saying. Of all people, I thought you’d understand,” she says, and there’s a tic in Dylan’s jaw that tells me she hit a nerve.
I feel a pang of sympathy for Morgan. I can’t imagine what it must be like to lose a parent and face the possibility of losing their life’s work as well.
“Dylan,” Jesse interjects. “Stonewall’s a boutique label. It should stay that way. You merge with Left Turn, you turn it into a conglomerate.”
So much for his help. “What are you doing?” I mouth to Jesse and all he does is shrug back at me.
“You’ve already voiced your concerns more than once,” Dylan replies, looking uncomfortable.
“So everyone knew about this but me?” Morgan accuses.
“Everyone knew about what?” Dylan’s father, Wade, steps onto the patio with a bowl of chips in his hand, looking at all of us confused.
“Dylan just made an offer to purchase Left Turn Records,” Morgan snaps, her eyes flashing with indignation.
Wade gives Dylan a skeptical gaze. “Dylan?”
I could smack my forehead right now. “You didn’t run it by your dads first?” I whisper shout to Dylan and he rolls his eyes, obviously annoyed with me.
“I don’t have to run anything by them.”
“This isn’t just any decision, Dylan. We’re talking about Left Turn here,” he says.
“I know,” Dylan replies solemnly. “But I’m not trying to take anything. I’m trying to save it. They’re in financial trouble, and if we don’t act fast?—”
“Why would you think that?” Wade asks.
“I’ve had meetings with a couple artists who want to move to Stonewall,” Dylan interrupts.
Morgan makes an indignant gasp but quickly shuts her mouth as if she doesn’t want to give away that she wasn’t privy to this information.
Adam, Dylan’s other dad, walks onto the patio carrying a plate of hot dogs. “You wanna help me with the barbeque? You know how fire and my hair don’t get along,” he jokes, patting down his impeccably styled hair with his free hand.
The patio is so silent it’s suffocating.
Adam looks around at all of us. “What’d I miss?” he asks.
Wade pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Jesus it’s like an episode of a Gossip Girl reboot,” I groan, breaking the silence, which garners me a kick from Joey. “Ow,” I protest, glaring at her.
“Apparently Dylan made an offer to buy Left Turn Records,” Wade accuses, and then turns back to Dylan. “Your timing is awful,” Wade’s voice is firm.
“If you think waiting around is going to fix things, you’re wrong. I’m just trying to keep the legacy alive,” Dylan argues, running a hand through his hair again, the tension palpable. “Merging is the best alternative,” he addresses Morgan. “If the other labels get wind, they’ll descend like vultures.”
“Hold on,” Adam says. “I don’t disagree with Dylan. This isn’t something you can sit on for very long.”
“What?” Wade asks, clearly surprised.
“We handed over the business to Dylan because he’s smart and we trust him to make the right decisions,” Adam argues.
“Okay, this isn’t the time or place to discuss this,” Wade says, exasperated.
Morgan’s defiance falters slightly as she meets Wade’s sympathetic gaze. I can tell she’s trying to grapple with the complexity of her emotions and the gravity of the situation, but Wade’s right—this isn’t the time or place.
She finally turns back to Dylan, her green eyes flashing. “Thanks but no thanks. I’ll take my chances. But if you keep coming after my artists, Dylan, I’ll start poaching yours. And trust me, I learned from the best—my father taught me everything about how this industry works, including where all the bodies are buried.” She gives him a sharp smile. “Metaphorically speaking, of course.”
Morgan turns on her heel and stalks away, leaving an awkward silence in her wake. Dylan looks like he just swallowed something sour.
“Well, that went well,” Jesse drawls sarcastically. “Nothing like a hostile takeover to kick off summer.”
“It wasn’t hostile,” Dylan protests, but his voice lacks conviction.
“No, hostile would have involved actual bodies,” I quip, earning another kick from Joey. “Would you stop that?”
“Would you stop making things worse?” she whispers back.
“We’ll talk about this later,” Wade interrupts, pointing at Dylan.
Before Dylan can respond, Jack steps onto the patio looking at me pointedly.
Shit.
He’s oblivious to the giant elephant that took a dump right in the middle of the room. He’s holding a Monopoly board in his hands and raises his eyebrows in challenge. “Think you can play this time without cheating, you little shit?” he asks me. “And no cameras. Someone pat her down,” he addresses Wade, who glares at him.
“What?” Jack shrugs. “I’m not taking any chances this time.”
* * *
It’s a warm, cloudless day in Palm Springs, the sun hanging high in a sapphire sky, casting golden rays that glint off the myriad of tents and campers sprawling across the fairgrounds. My heavy bag thuds against my hip, each step a reminder of the chaotic whirlwind I just entered.
As I turn a corner, the sight of a large bus emblazoned with “Velvet Drift” makes my heart race. A burly man with a grey beard, his band t-shirt stretched tight over a barrel chest, steps down from the bus, the door creaking as it swings open.
“Are you Dusty?” I croak out, slightly out of breath from the sheer weight of my bag and the swirling trepidation in my stomach.
“That’d be me. What can I do for ya?” he replies, his voice warm but gruff, as if he spends most of his time shouting over the roar of amplifiers.
“Maggie Morgan.” I introduce myself, raising my camera in an attempt to convey my purpose. “I’m gonna be joining the tour.”
Dusty’s brows knit together for a moment as he gives me an amused once-over. “Welcome, Maggie.” He scratches his beard. “You can throw your bag on the bus with the crew,” he gestures behind him. “We leave in the morning for Salt Lake.”
“Oh, um,” My gaze flickers toward the bus, skepticism creeping in. “I thought I was getting my own bus.”
A hearty laugh erupts from Dusty, as if my request is the punchline to his favorite joke. While he chuckles, my attention wanders to a tall figure striding toward some of the crew nearby—guitar slung over his shoulder, black jeans hugging an undeniably nice ass.
I shake my head vigorously, forcing those thoughts away. I’m not here to ogle rockstars, just to film them. But, God, is it ever hard not to appreciate the view.
“Excuse me,” Dusty says, finally managing to quell his laughter. He calls over his shoulder, “Felix, you’re on in ten.”
He turns in my direction and swipes the dark hair from his face. He’s wearing a pair of sunglasses, but I know his eyes are on me by the slight tilt of his lips.
“Felix?” My mouth goes dry, voice barely above a whisper.
This cannot be happening.
The sunglasses slip down the bridge of his nose and I catch his gaze. A lopsided grin creeps across his face as if he’s just discovered a delightful secret.
Felix is Velvet Drift?
Fuck my life.
Dylan is dead.
“Fucking hell,” I mutter under my breath, praying the ground opens up and swallows me whole. I thought being on a tour bus with strangers would be awkward enough, but apparently, fate has a twisted sense of humor.
“You,” Dusty pats my shoulder, bringing me back to reality, “come with me.”
I follow him onto the bus and get a look at my home for the summer. Bunk beds line both ends with a small kitchen and table in the middle. The sink is full of dishes, there’s a pair of underwear laying in the hall, and when I lift my foot, there’s a bit of give indicating that I’m standing on something sticky.
“Only empty one left,” Dusty says, pointing to a bottom bunk.
I stare at it warily. Across from me, he plucks the remnants of a poster off the wall—a woman in nothing but a smile—and crumples it with a nonchalant flick of his wrist. “Tour life.” He gives an embarrassed smile.
I know I’m not the neatest person, but this is on another level.
“I’m on a bus with boys?” I ask, surveying my surroundings more.
“It’s coed.”
I give him a confused look.
“That means there are other women on the crew,” he explains as if I’m dumb.
“I know what it means.”
“Here’s your pass.” He lays a lanyard over my head, but I barely register it because I’m still processing the fact that I’m on a bus with the crew. “Keep this with you at all times. It’s the only way you’ll have access backstage.”
I glance down at the pass just as the bathroom door swings open and the smell that wafts out could peel wallpaper.
“I wouldn’t go in there for a while,” the guy says as he passes, clasping Dusty’s shoulder before exiting the bus.
I’m not going in there—ever. I will hold it for the entire tour if I have to. Dusty looks unbothered while my nose hairs feel like they’re being burned off.
“That smell doesn’t bother you?” I ask.
“What smell?”
My eyes widen. Dear God, has he been here so long that he’s immune?
“Craft service tents are that way.” He points to somewhere in the distance, but I can’t see because my eyes are starting to water. “If you need anything, just let me know.”
“Yeah, I will definitely need a hazmat suit for that bathroom,” I grumble, pinching my nose as Dusty exits the bus, leaving me alone. I immediately pull out my phone.
“I’m staying on a bus with roadies,” I grit out as soon as Dylan answers. “Don’t even get me started on the bathroom situation,” I whimper.
“I’m sure it’s…”
“It’s a tin can on wheels, Dylan!” I yell into the phone.
“A fancy trailer wasn’t in the budget,” he offers.
“You’re the head of the label,” I protest. “Do not tell me it’s out of your hands.”
“It’s business, and Velvet Drift still has to turn a profit, which is the reason for a tour,” Dylan explains.
“Don’t try to go all businessman on me, especially since we grew up together and I know things, Dylan,” I threaten him.
“Maggie,” he warns.
“I can’t prove it, but I know it was you who wet the bed in Tahoe.”
Dylan emits a strangled noise, as if he’s pinching the bridge of his nose. “I was seven years old!” he yells into the phone. “Besides, you were three, you can’t possibly remember that.”
“You don’t forget a trauma like that,” I say dramatically.
“Jesus Christ, Maggs.”
“I want my own bus,” I whine.
Dylan laughs. “The only one who gets his own bus is Felix.”
“Felix is a fucking pampered rockstar,” I snipe.
“Have you met yet?”
“Not exactly,” I grumble.
I survey the bunk I’ll be sleeping in tonight. “I’m expensing new bed sheets!” I yell into the phone before hanging up on him.
Stepping off the bus, I nearly slam into Felix—yet another close call that could have landed me unceremoniously on my ass. I exhale sharply, sending a wayward strand of hair dancing away, and breathe in the welcome freshness as I find my footing.
“Well, we meet again,” he says, and I straighten myself. “Do I get a name this time?” he pushes the sunglasses onto his head revealing his dark blue eyes.
“I think you already know my name,” I remind him.
“Now who doesn’t have manners?” he asks playfully.
Play nice, Maggie. You’re here for the summer.
“Maggie Morgan,” I plaster on an exaggerated smile and then hold up my camera. “I drew the short straw and get to film you all summer.”
He offers his hand, each long, slender finger graced with rings, the glint of metal softened by the worn leather bracelet resting on his wrist. “Pampered rockstar,” he introduces himself with a cocky smile, his hand meeting mine in a warm grasp that sends my pulse into a breathless sprint.
Well shit.
Speaking of, the smell from the bathroom starts to waft out through the open bus door.
Felix laughs, his eyes crinkling at the sides.
“Welcome to the tour, Maggie Morgan. Seems like you’ve made yourself comfortable already.” He wrinkles his nose, looking toward the bus as he starts to walk away.
“That was not me!” I call after him, hoisting my camera strap further up my shoulder while I chase after him. “Felix!”
“Relax,” he responds. “I’m joking.”
“Not funny.”
“So… this is really happening?” I ask, trying to keep up as we make our way to the stage.
“Yes, apparently you drew the short straw,” he reminds me.
I let out a breath. “I need experience and Dylan thinks filming the tour will be good publicity for you.”
His expression softens slightly. “Ah,” Felix nods, sliding his sunglasses back into place. “Well, just make sure you get my good side, yeah?”
There’s a self-assured flippancy in his tone that sends a jolt of defiance through me. “Do you have one?” I fire back.
Felix chuckles, the sound rich and playful. “You’re sassy,” he notes, sliding his guitar around to rest against his back as if it’s a well-worn accessory rather than an instrument.
“That’s an essential survival skill when surrounded by narcissistic musicians such as yourself.”
Felix quirks an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the back-and-forth. “What else you got?”
“That’s it for now.”
“That’s a shame,” he replies, a hint of intrigue in his tone.
“So Velvet Drift?” I press on, my camera hovering at the ready. “I thought your name was Felix Krasinski? Is this one of those things where you’re Adam Levine of Maroon 5?”
I need to get to know my subject. For the film, of course.
“You know your bands,” he sounds impressed. “But I think of it more like how Trent Reznor was Nine Inch Nails.”
“That’s a lot to live up to,” I respond, lifting the camera slightly. “Think you can handle it, rockstar?”
“Darlin’, you have no idea what I have to live up to.”
I take a step back. “You didn’t answer my question.”
He takes a moment to assess me, a flicker of sincerity breaking through his cocky exterior. “Yeah. I can handle it.”
There’s a gravity in his words that resonates within me, aware of my own struggles to carve an identity outside of familial expectations.
“I look forward to you proving it,” I say.
Felix looks back at me, his smile easy and effortless. “For the record, Sass, there’s not a lot I can’t handle,” he winks and then swaggers up the steps of the stage.
Did he just nickname me Sass?