Just Sing: An Enemies-to-Lovers Rock Star Romance (Just 5 Guys Book 1) Read online

  JUST BRODY

  Selena

  Just Brody © 2016 Selena

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Cover Design by Ally Hastings

  ISBN: 978-1-945780-86-8

  Table of Contents

  May

  one

  two

  three

  four

  June

  five

  six

  seven

  eight

  nine

  ten

  eleven

  twelve

  July

  thirteen

  fourteen

  fifteen

  sixteen

  seventeen

  August

  eighteen

  nineteen

  twenty

  September

  twenty-one

  October

  twenty-two

  November

  twenty-three

  twenty-four

  twenty-five

  twenty-six

  twenty-seven

  twenty-eight

  twenty-nine

  thirty

  thirty-one

  December

  thirty-two

  thirty-three

  thirty-four

  thirty-five

  thirty-six

  January

  thirty-seven

  thirty-eight

  February

  thirty-nine

  forty

  forty-one

  March

  forty-two

  forty-three

  April

  forty-four

  forty-five

  Acknowledgements

  JUST SING

  Brody

  Yeah, I might just have the most recognizable face on the planet, but that doesn’t stop my band from breaking up. Upon returning home from the last show, I run into Laney Tucker—high school sweetheart, next door neighbor, and the girl I left behind when fame came calling. I’ve made more than my share of mistakes, but that’s the one that keeps me up at night.

  The moment I lay eyes on her, I know she’ll be mine again, whether she knows it or not. Some things are just meant to be.

  Laney

  No way in hell am I getting back together with the cheating scumbag who traded me in for a bunch of groupies. But I’m not above making him think otherwise, if only to teach him a lesson. The problem is, revenge is a dish best served cold, and Brody Villines still makes me so damn hot.

  I just have to remind myself that every word of every song is a lie. No matter how right it feels to be in his arms again, some things just aren’t meant to be.

  May

  one

  Brody

  I looked out over the sea of shrieking, overgrown baby-dolls. That’s all I could see—twenty thousand of them. Ever since Just 5 Guys dropped our first single, this had been happening. More and more fans dressed up as baby-dolls. The costumes covered the full spectrum, from everyday baby-doll dresses, to those who painted their faces white and lips red, to those who went even further and wore creepy baby-doll masks above sexy baby-doll Halloween costumes.

  “I got something very special for y’all tonight,” I said, lowering my voice and looking into the front row, as if I were speaking to each girl individually. Of course, some of my fans weren’t dressed up—the moms, a few of the gay guys, the occasional dad—but that’s what I saw. A sea of creepy faces staring back at me. At first, it had amused me. Now it was both unnerving and titillating. I fantasized about bending that front row of screaming baby-dolls over the railing and fucking them each in turn.

  Probably not cool, since ninety percent of them were unquestionably jailbait. Oh well. It was a fantasy. I surely couldn’t fuck more than five or six of them in a row.

  “It’s time we took it full circle,” I said when the shrieking had died down enough that I could be heard. “And you know what that means. Our last song will be our first.” I added a wink just for fun, and twenty thousand preteens shrieked like they’d won the lottery. In a way, they had. This was the last show before Just 5 Guys took a break—indefinitely. Last I’d heard, tickets were a few hundred…for the nose bleeds. How much had these girls in the front row paid?

  And then I spotted one girl, standing in the front row, on her fucking cell phone. She wasn’t taking pictures or videos of the show. She was just staring at her screen. Probably posting a picture on Instagram or texting a friend, I told myself.

  The girl beside her was gazing at me with such rapt adoration that it almost hurt. I met her eyes and gave her my trademark crooked smile, the one insured for several million dollars, and she shrieked and jumped up and down, grabbing the arm of the texting brunette beside her, who scowled in response. The girls around her had erupted into chaos as I smiled at them, too. If I fucked one, I’d ruin her for life. If she lived to be a hundred, nothing would ever compare to the night Brody Villines took her to his dressing room. It would be tragic, really, to peak so young.

  I pushed that thought aside a little too roughly. My therapist said those thoughts were self-defeating. Of course I’d keep making music after tonight. Music was in my veins instead of blood. I couldn’t stop making music if I lost both hands, couldn’t stop any more than I could stop the rhythm of the world turning.

  With a dramatic electronic flourish, the music from our first number one single began. The song that had catapulted us to international stardom, the song I’d grown to despise in my very bones.

  “Baby-doll.”

  I tossed my hair out of my eyes, and twenty thousand chicks shrieked like I’d just impaled them on my dick. My feet started moving before I told them to, the muscle memory kicking in when the beat entered my bloodstream. I didn’t have to think as I went through the choreography, the lyrics sliding out of me just as easily, without thought.

  Be my baby-doll

  I ain’t even playin’ wit’ you

  I just want a baby-doll

  I can hold the whole night through

  God damn, did I hate this fucking song. When my quiet refusal to sing the song after our last tour had failed to move our manager, I’d incited Jace into throwing a tantrum. That had worked for a while, but on our very last night, Nash had insisted. It was fitting, I had to admit.

  As the song moved into the bridge, I slowed down to grind my hips in that way fans loved, watching twenty thousand chicks fantasizing about being on my tip. It was still a rush, I couldn’t deny that. Then it was back into the chorus, my feet finding their way effortlessly. One-two-three-four, spin-spin-spin-plant. Just as I completed one of my triple turns, I spotted the brunette yawning before she went back to her phone. She was fucking yawning.

  I was working my ass off. I’d sweated through choreography for years, since I was ba
rely older than my average fan. Drank the nastiest teas and tinctures known to man to keep my throat clear and my voice smooth as silk, that breathy crooning that made fangirls cream their panties on the spot. I’d practiced for hours and then refrained from speech for entire days, whatever my manager required to keep my vocal chords in pristine shape. Kissed the asses of managers, agents, media, labels, paparazzi, other stars. Faked relationships, gotten up at obscene hours, stayed up until obscene hours or entire days at a time, missed holidays with family, went months at a time without sleeping in my own bed or setting foot in my own home. All to please my fans. And this chick was bored?

  Her thumb scrolled through her phone. I missed a step. Damn it. This was my last show. I couldn’t fuck up over some spoiled, entitled phone addict. But when the song slowed and I approached the mic stand to caress it while I crooned the last lines, there she was again. Still scrolling, reading it looked like, not posting or texting, but browsing her social media, no doubt. What a waste of a front row seat.

  The song wrapped, and that was it. The last song Just 5 Guys would ever play. And not even significant enough to keep the attention of a front row fangirl.

  two

  Brody

  Truth be told, I was exhausted. But before I could go home, disappear into my family’s sprawling Kentucky estate, its lands restored to my family thanks to my contributions, I had one last evening to enjoy my celebrity status. Sure, I’d probably be hounded by photographers and tabloids for years to come, based solely on the accomplishments of Just 5 Guys, but it wouldn’t be the same. There was something to be said for a stadium full of women adoring you. It could get a guy hopped up on a certain kind of energy, one that was more addictive than any drug—unless you were Jace Wilder, that is.

  Addictive enough to leave your first love with nothing but an empty promise that, after a while, you almost forgot you’d made.

  “Ready for backstage, fellas?” asked Nash, our manager, clapping us on the back as we passed. Our roadies headed onstage to break down the bit of equipment while we went to greet our VIP ticketholders, media, fellow celebrities, and a handful of contest winners whom I would inevitably forget to attribute to the right contest.

  “Hey, hold up,” I said, grabbing Nash’s sleeve. “I need to get a couple girls from the first row back there. You know, make their night. It’ll look good for publicity.”

  “Ask Stacy,” Nash said, barely glancing at me. I searched the bustling throng backstage. It wasn’t the way people imagined, groupies and orgies and blow. It was all business. But I didn’t see our publicist. Instead, I caught the attention of Steve, one of our oldest and most trustworthy security guys who had spent our first tour as a roadie, loading our equipment and chasing off girls.

  That was back when I’d been sure that one day I’d marry Laney, that I’d never be with another girl, that our feelings would never change. Before I’d had to fake relationships with other celebrities because real ones became impossible. Before I had the hottest girls on the planet ripping off their clothes and demanding I give them an exclusive encore in the back of my tour bus.

  “Hey, man,” I said, lowering my voice so only Steve could hear. “I need you to grab a couple girls from the front row. Blondie in a pink baby-doll costume, one of those ballerina things, and the girl with her. Real moody looking. Has her phone glued to one hand.”

  “Got it,” Steve said before hurrying away. One of Steve’s greatest assets was his ability to stay out of everyone’s business, to do as he was told without asking questions or even looking at you sideways. He had no opinions and knew how to keep his mouth shut.

  I talked to a few bloggers, shook hands, signed autographs, kissed cheeks, took selfies, kissed ass.

  It wasn’t until a good hour later that I saw her standing against the wall, her dark hair in a sloppy bun, wearing jeans and a t-shirt. Unlike most of the baby-dolls, she’d gone for that natural look. And she was still absorbed in her phone.

  I made my way over, exhausted but not about to walk away without taking her down a peg. “Must be important,” I said, pausing when I reached her.

  She looked up from her phone as if startled to find herself among humans. She flashed the screen towards me, fixing me with these crazy purple eyes like nothing I’d ever seen. “Nah, just SnapIt. What’s up?”

  “I saw you on your phone during the show,” I said. “Was it that dull?”

  “No,” she said with a shrug. “Just not really my kind of music.”

  “You paid for a front row seat.”

  “Oh, that,” she said dismissively. “My cousin loves you.”

  “But you don’t.”

  “I got roped into going because her friend got sick,” she said. “But I’m not really into the boyband thing. I prefer real music.”

  “What’s real music?” I challenged. If my vocal coaching didn’t count, my sixteen years of guitar, my choreography and dance classes, more voice lessons, piano lessons… If all that didn’t count, I didn’t know what real music was.

  “You know, like them,” she said, pointing to her t-shirt.

  “Pink Floyd.”

  “Yeah,” she said with another shrug.

  “So it has to be one of the greatest musical legends of all time to be real music?”

  “No, but it has to be something that will stand the test of time. Boybands… Won’t.”

  “The Beatles might beg to differ.”

  She scoffed. “The Beatles are not a boyband.”

  “They’re the original boyband.”

  She shook back a lock of hair that had escaped her bun and gave me a challenging look. “You’re not the Beatles. You’re more like… New Kids on the Block.”

  “And you’re a bitch.”

  “True,” she said, without even flinching. “But I’m a bitch who knows good music.”

  “Oh, because you listen to some indie shit that no one’s ever heard of, you’re so superior to the ninety percent of the world that listens to popular music. It’s called popular for a reason. I think the general population knows what’s good.”

  “I’m sure they do,” she said, but her violet eyes flashed.

  “What about your cousin? You’re so much better than her, too, right?”

  “No,” she said. “But I have better taste in music.”

  We stood staring each other down for a minute without speaking.

  Then I stepped forward and kissed her, hard. Her lips were warm and tasted like mint gum. Her tongue was wet and minty fresh, and for a minute, it drank mine in. Then she stepped backwards and shoved me, hard.

  “What the hell? Do you just go around kissing whoever you want without asking?”

  “I don’t have to ask,” I said. “Do you realize how lucky you are that I even gave you the time of day?”

  She crossed her arms and scowled at me. “No. Tell me.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me? There’s twenty thousand girls out there who would drop to their knees and blow me if I snapped my fingers.”

  “Yeah? So why aren’t you out there snapping your fingers, loverboy?”

  “There’s only one girl I want on her knees in front of me tonight.”

  “Sorry,” she said, though she didn’t sound the least bit sorry. “I need a better offer.”

  “A better offer?” I spluttered.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Like maybe you on your knees in front of me.”

  “You got yourself a deal, baby-doll.” The word slipped out before I could rethink my usual pet name. The baby-dolls loved it when I called them that, and it simplified things for me, too. That way I didn’t need to bother with learning names.

  “Is that right?” the girl asked. “You? You’re going to go down on me?”

  I widened my eyes and said, as innocently as I could manage, “You think I’m afraid of a little pussy cat?”

  “It’s okay if you don’t know how,” she said. “There’s a learning curve that I’m sure a big rock star like you would
n’t need to master, what with all the girls in line for the job of giving you one.”

  “Trust me, I know my way around a girl. Every part of her.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Now you’re backing out? I thought we had a deal,” I said with a smirk. “I guess I’m not the one who’s scared.”

  “I’m not scared,” she said. “But what’s the point, if I know I’ll be disappointed in the end? If I’m going to get some, I want it to be good, not some wannabe rock star who thinks he knows how to please a woman because he’s fucked a hundred who all faked an orgasm to stroke his ego.”

  “Yeah, sounds like you’re scared to me.”

  “You’re going to go down on me. You. Brady Villines.”

  “Don’t look so shocked, baby-doll. I’m a rock star in more ways than one. And it’s Brody.”

  “Alright, fine,” she said. “But if I don’t get off, I want a refund.”

  I laughed, surprising myself. “A refund?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I want my ticket refunded. The show sure as hell wasn’t worth the price of admission.”

  I grabbed her hand and yanked her out the back door, tension coursing through me. Sure, sometimes a challenge was fun, but this girl was a straight up bitch. Usually, I hooked up with one of the more persistent baby-dolls backstage, a blonde more often than not. At first, I’d been so pissed about their fanatic obsession and my inability to resist it, that I’d picked the faceless ones behind masks. But it had been a while since I’d grudge-fucked a groupie.

  But hey, grudge-fucking could be fun.

  This was an angry grudge fuck, different from those. Now I wasn’t pissed that she’d torn at my clothes like a rapid dog and practically raped me after I told her I had a girlfriend. This was me proving that, at twenty-three, I wasn’t done. I had a lot left to prove.

  I pulled her up the steps of my tour bus and back through the cluster of insiders allowed on my bus—my agent, a couple celebrities, Nash, Stacy, and Quincy, impressing his groupie by showing her my tour bus. After being burned once by a fan who took pictures of everything and posted them online, I was very particular about my tour bus, private and choosy about who I let in. My crew was under strict orders not to let outsiders on.