Too Many Rock Stars

By: Candy J. Starr



Drew had started mopping out the store room and the floor was soaking wet.

"Watch out," he called.

But it was too late. My foot skidded on the wet tiled floor. In slow motion, I slid across the floor to the stack of boxes. I floundered, reaching out for something, before I ended up buried under a mountain of glass.

I was going to die.

Then strong arms encased me, holding me firm.

"Razer?" I asked, wondering where he'd come from.

"Razer?" a voice answered. A voice like a luxurious blanket that you wrap around yourself. Not a skanky blanket like the one in my office but cashmere or silk or some other fabric too rich for my blood.

I got myself onto my feet and turned to check out my rescuer. His voice sure wasn’t familiar and neither was the rest of him.

Long hair, long legs, leather pants, sexy insolence, and a hint of darkness that proved he was the antithesis of Razer.

He leaned back against the shelves like a sleek, pedigree cat. A lock of glossy black hair swung down in his face and he languidly tucked it away.

I knew every rocker in this town. Every single one, from the kids begging for their first gigs to the guys who’d forgotten the name of everyone who’d helped them along the way. I didn’t know this guy though.

This guy was no novice, that's for sure. He had that look, like he'd been around. But he'd not been around here.

"What's going on?" Razer walked out of my office.

The new guy stared at Razer with barely concealed disgust. Razer stared back, the threat of violence in his eyes.

I sighed, knowing this would be trouble. Big alpha male face-off trouble.

Razer sneered. "Leather pants in this weather? You must have some sweaty balls going on there."

Okay, that checked off far too many boxes on my gross out list. The new guy didn't react though, apart from a slight twitch of his lips. Then he looked at me with his soulful eyes, as though the gaucheness of Razer caused him physical pain. Soulful eyes, especially if they are the colour of a perfectly brewed coffee, are the most dangerous weapon in the rock star man-whore arsenal. Those eyes could set a girl on fire, zap her full of electrical current and leave her a burnt out shell.

I couldn't, wouldn't burn in them. I looked away.

The two guys moved closer to each other, chests puffed out and backs straight. They locked eyes and the stench of testosterone drowned out the beer smell. They'd start grunting before long.

The store room was far too small to contain their burgeoning egos. If I didn't stop them, man-ego would be leaking out through the cracks in the walls.

"There is nothing here for either of you. This is a YOU-free zone. Both of you." I waved at them, wanting them gone.

"Violet Mason? I was told you’re the woman to see in this town if I want to score a gig."

Wow, if his eyes were coffee, his smile was the whipped cream on top.

"There's contact details on the webpage. You didn't need to come in. I don't accept demos in person." I kept it cool, avoiding his eyes.

"This one you'll want to listen to," he said, flipping a USB stick at me. "There's footage of us playing on there too."

I caught it and put it in my back pocket. I'd listen to later, some time. I had enough work to be getting on with. A pair of sexy eyes didn't mean you could jump my queue.

"Listen, mate," said Razer, "You can't just waltz in here with your demo and expect to get a slot. There is a system. A process. I'm not even sure you'd make the kind of music that'd go over well here. Maybe you should just run along. Violet is very busy, you know."

Razer moved over beside me as though staking his claim. He leaned so close, the hairs on his arm tickled on my skin. That was way too close for my liking.

"Razer, I'm the band booker here – and you, you are the band that might never play here again if you don't watch your mouth."

The stranger's mouth curled a little. A half-smile lifting one side of his lips in an enticingly arrogant manner.

"Do you have a bio?" I asked him. I really just wanted to get out of the store room. The cold concrete was a killer on my bare feet and I was far too aware of the skimpiness of my outfit.

"It's on the USB but I've got a paper version if you need that." He handed me a sheet of paper.

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