Good Girl: Wicked #1 Read online

  On the other side of the door, Jax exchanges angry words with a man in a suit.

  “That’s Shannon Cross,” I say.

  The tech nods, stiff. “Correct. The CEO showing up means one or both of us is fired.”

  “Well… which is it?”

  We watch as Jax stabs a finger toward me and stalks off.

  “I’m guessing you,” my companion murmurs.

  The door opens, and Shannon Cross looks at me. “My office. Five minutes.” He turns and leaves.

  After gathering my papers, I take the tech’s directions to the elevator to the third floor. A watchful assistant greets me and asks me to take a seat in one of the wingback chairs.

  Great. I’ve been here less than an hour, and I’m about to be fired.

  Instead of spinning out, I study the picture on the wall and the caption beside it.

  Wicked Records’s headquarters. Founded in 1995, relocated to this new building in 2003. Employs two thousand people.

  “Miss Telfer.”

  I turn to see Cross watching me from his doorway. He exudes strength, but in a different way than Jax. He’s older, for one. Tall and lean, with hair so dark it’s nearly black. The ends curl over his collar, but I can’t imagine it’s because he forgot to get a haircut.

  His suit is crisply cut to follow the lines of his body. He was one of the men with all the gold statues in the picture yesterday. Yet on this floor, there are no pictures of him.

  Weird.

  He’s made millions—probably billions—in the music industry. Formed stars whose careers took off, flamed out. In the golden age of record executives, he’s one of the biggest.

  I follow him into his black-and-white office, a continuation of the pristine carpet outside. It should look like something from an old movie, but it doesn’t. It’s modern.

  A fluffy gray rug on the floor under a conversation set looks as if it used to walk.

  I’m struck by the urge to run my fingers through it.

  The photos gracing the walls here are black-and-white, but they’re not of musicians or awards receptions.

  They’re fields and greenspace.

  Err, gray space.

  “Is that Ireland?” I blurt. “It looks beautiful.”

  I turn to find his gaze on me. “It is. My father moved here when I was a child.”

  I wait to see if he’ll offer me a seat, but he doesn’t. Nor does he take one as he rounds the black wood desk, resting his fingertips on the blotter.

  “Miss Telfer, I understand you interfered with a studio recording session. And assaulted one of our biggest artists.”

  My jaw drops. “I definitely did not assault him. He started it.”

  I realize how childish it sounds. The memory of it has my skin shivering again, and I rub my hands over my arms. “Technically, he startled me. I was trying to defend myself. Every modern woman should have a knowledge of self-defense, don’t you think?”

  He doesn’t nod, but he hasn’t kicked me out yet, so I keep going.

  “I know I shouldn’t have walked in, but your tech had this ‘FML’ look I know from a mile away. I know the software. I use it in the campus music lab all the time. There’s a compatibility issue with the most recent update, and…” I trail off as he holds up a hand. “I wanted to fix it.”

  Appraising eyes study me. “And did you?”

  I realize Cross isn’t asking me about my outburst but what I’d done before that. “Yes. Yes, I think so.”

  Cross’ lips twitch at the corner. “Jax Jamieson is heading out on the final leg of his U.S. tour, and we’re short on technical support. We could use someone with your problem-solving skills to back up our sound engineer.”

  “You’re asking me if I want to go on a rock tour?” Disbelief reverberates through me.

  “Of course not.” His smile thins. “I’m reassigning you to a rock tour.”

  “He wants you to what?” Serena shrieks over the phone.

  “Go on tour. Four weeks.” From the way I’m hyperventilating in the bathroom stall, I’m surprised the force of it doesn’t lift me clean off the linoleum. “Then I can choose to return to the studio and spend the rest of the summer making coffee. Or they’ll sign a letter saying my co-op term was completed because I’m working around the clock.”

  “You have to do it.”

  “First, I have no idea what it means to back up a sound engineer on tour. And second, spending twenty-four hours a day with other people sounds like a special kind of hell.” I yank a sheet of toilet paper from the roll and start the productive task of tearing it into tiny pieces. “I bet they all travel on a bus.”

  “The horror.”

  “It is!” I insist. “They probably sleep in a pile, and…” I hiccup, yanking at my waistband. “Dammit, this skirt is really tight.”

  My fingers find the zipper, yanking it down enough that I can breathe while Serena laughs. “When does it leave?”

  “This afternoon. I’m supposed to report to this address and see the tour manager.” I take a breath.

  “You have to admit it’s kind of poetic,” she observes. “Plus, you’re out of options. The point of the co-operative education program is to put your training into practice. If you don’t have a job in the summer where you can practice, you’ll get kicked out.”

  Which is the only reason I’m still here instead of halfway down the street.

  “I’ve never had a real job before. I live behind a computer.” I slap my forehead. “And I was planning on a job where I’d have time to work on my program with Professor Carter.”

  “Forget Carter. This is a sign. You’re going to fuck Jax Jamieson.”

  This is the risk of being friends with Serena. She regularly makes statements that, although they may be entirely false, have the immediate effect of taking years off your life.

  “Serena, it’s not a sign. It’s a mistake chased by a coincidence wrapped in a bad idea. Jax Jamieson isn’t someone you fuck. He’s someone you study and watch and learn from. He’s someone you worship.”

  “Yeah, with your tongue.” Shivers run through me. “You go to college to learn and study. A guy like Jax Jamieson is exactly who you fuck. He probably has to lift an eyebrow and panties drop. He could blow on a girl, and she’d come. Hell, if he so much as brushes past you in the hallway? I bet you could live off the contact high for the rest of your life.”

  “I interrupted his recording session.”

  A loud bang has me holding the phone away from my ear. “Sorry, I dropped you. What the hell, Haley? You met a rock star and got invited on his tour. This is amazing. So… is he?”

  “Is he what?” I whisper.

  “So hot you’ll picture him every time you buzz yourself to oblivion.”

  I picture his amber stare, and this time I do feel a shiver. It’s surprising but pleasant. It starts in my brain, trips down my spine, tingles lower.

  “No?”

  “You totally said that like it was a question.”

  Two hours later, I spill out of a cab. The rolling bag at my side and my backpack should have everything I’ll need, but I feel naked.

  I round the hotel to find two busses parked in the back, plus an eighteen-wheeler truck.

  A woman sporting tailored jeans, heels, a cute blazer, and a blue Katy Perry ponytail comes up to me. “I’m Nina, the tour manager. You must be Haley. Shannon said we’re adding one more here.”

  “That’s me.”

  She tucks her tablet under her arm, presses her hands together, and executes a mini-bow. “Namaste.”

  “Um. Yeah, you too.”

  She straightens, and she’s all business again. “Did you get the paperwork emailed to you?”

  “I think so.”

  “Good. We’re running late, but I can answer any questions you have once we get rolling.”

  She calls everyone’s attention and goes over the schedule.

  “We’re off to Pittsburgh. Another sold-out show. We should get in by th
ree. Curtain’s at eight. It’ll be a tight setup, but you’ve only done it fifty times.”

  A few people chuckle. The words bring a shiver over me as I look around the circle.

  “All right, everyone get ready to roll out. Anyone seen Jerry?” Nina asks.

  “Yeah. He’s meeting us in Pittsburgh,” a guy says.

  She sighs. “Fine.”

  I still don’t know who Jerry is, but everyone seems to want a piece of him today.

  A striking redheaded woman who looks a few years older than me meets my gaze. “You must be the fresh meat.”

  “I’m Haley. And you’re Lita Holm.” I recognize her immediately. “You’re opening for Jax. I loved your Preacher album.”

  “Not the new one?” She raises a brow, and I wince. “Don’t take it back now. Honesty is refreshing.” She doesn’t offer me a hand. I like her already. “Come on. I’ll show you around.”

  I shield my eyes from the sun with a hand, scanning the busses. “These are big.”

  “This one’s for the crew and our band.” She points at the other bus. “That one belongs to Riot Act. But rumor has it Mace, Kyle, and Brick get the front half. The rest is Jax’s.”

  “Rumor?”

  She raises a brow. “You think any of us see the inside?”

  She nods toward the closer bus, and I get on, shouldering my bag.

  “It’s a pretty baller tour. We stay in hotels most nights.” Relief courses through me. “Occasionally we have to travel overnight, and you can sleep here.”

  She gestures to the bunks at the back, and I take a slow breath.

  I might not be able to sleep, but as long as it’s not every night, it should be manageable.

  A living room-type area makes up the front, and she drops onto a couch there.

  “Tour rules.” Her face gets serious as she holds up fingers. “One, thou shalt shower every day. It seems obvious. Apparently it’s not.” She shoots a look at a guy who laughs. “Two, thou shalt not touch other people’s shit.”

  “Three,” a voice shouts from somewhere behind us, “thou shalt not beat Lita in her fantasy baseball league.”

  The woman in question flips him her middle finger before returning to me. “Not actually. Though I’d love to see you try. Three, thou shalt not fraternize with the crew or with the artists.” I must look confused, because she says, “Fuck whoever you want as long as they’re not on either of these busses. You’ll get fired on the spot.”

  “That won’t be an issue.”

  She shoots me a look. “You’d be surprised.”

  3

  “I’m not interested in new opportunities. I don’t give a shit how big the paycheck is.”

  I toss the phone, still uttering persuasive sounds, across the room and pick up my guitar instead.

  My agent’s nothing if not insistent. Thank God I don’t pay him by the word.

  My fingers pluck at the strings, and the knot in my gut lessens a degree.

  Like most sicknesses, motion sickness is in your head. After ten years in the business, I can control it.

  But lately, the low-grade discomfort of being on tour has grown into something bigger. Something unwieldy.

  A sound like rain has me shifting on the leather couch to see Mace’s head sticking through the beaded curtain. “You working on something new?”

  “You learn to knock?” I ask my guitarist.

  He drops onto the couch across from mine. The back of my bus is bigger than the living room of the rent-controlled apartment I grew up in. I have nothing modern to compare it to since I’ve never bought myself a house.

  “Wouldn’t kill you to give the fans something,” Mace says. “It’s been a year.”

  He pops his gum because quitting smoking’s a bitch and he won't let any of us forget it.

  I play him the I-V-IV-V chord progression as I croon over the music. “I know a guy. His name is Mace. He likes to get fucked in the face…”

  He bursts into laughter, the kind that shakes the bus. “Sounds like a hit.”

  The look in his eye when the laughter stops has my own smirk fading. “What’ve you been doing?”

  “Nothing.”

  We’ve been friends long enough he knows not to lie to me. Alcohol’s one thing, but I don’t let shit on my tour. Not since the longest night of both our lives.

  The night I made a contract with myself. Decided I’m responsible for everyone who works here, and I will do whatever I have to to keep them safe.

  Mace shifts back on the couch. “What’s happening with Jerry?”

  “Nothing. He’s the best goddamned sound tech in the country. He’s been running shows since you were in diapers.”

  “Since my folks were, more like. He fucked up last week, Jax. Maybe the audience didn’t notice, but it could’ve been a helluva lot worse. Next time…”

  I silence him with a stare.

  “Fine. Jerry’s golden.”

  I’d stopped by the studio this morning to record an alternate version of a couple verses for an EP. I planned to get in, get out, and get on with my tour.

  But the kid couldn’t do his job, and Jerry was AWOL.

  Then things had gone from annoying to X-Files weird when some unfamiliar girl shrieked at me in my own studio like I was forcing myself on her against the wall.

  I can’t remember a woman complaining about me putting my hands on her before. And I’d barely touched her.

  Had I overreacted by telling Cross to get rid of her?

  Maybe. A thread of guilt tugs at my gut, but the brakes on the bus catch and I reach for the curtains. It’s too soon to be in Pittsburgh.

  I set down my guitar and follow Mace toward the front of the bus.

  “Watch the Death Star,” Mace warns. I skirt the half-built LEGO on the floor as I pass.

  Brick looks up from the video game he’s playing, and Kyle pockets his drumsticks.

  Outside, I stalk toward the front of our convoy, brushing through the crew pulling off the other bus. Smoke billows from the front of the truck that holds all the equipment for the stage show.

  “Pyro started early,” Mace says.

  Nina’s already standing by the front, one hand on her hip and her brows fused together. The rest of the crew forms a half circle around the truck, standing at a safe distance.

  Except one.

  The girl in jeans and a leather jacket inches toward the front of the truck, craning her neck to see what the driver’s doing over its open hood.

  “Who’s that?” Brick asks.

  “They called her in to cover Jerry,” Kyle says.

  “Unbelievable,” I mutter.

  The remorse I might’ve felt about my role in getting her fired evaporates like sweat off hot asphalt at the realization that she’s not fired.

  It’s twisted, sure. But if I gave myself shit for every twisted thought I have, I’d never find time to entertain millions of people.

  Meaning no one here would have jobs.

  So basically, cutting myself slack is great for the economy.

  “Can we put all the equipment onto the bus?” Lita asks.

  “It won’t fit,” Nina snaps, her gaze darting between the vehicles.

  “What about your Zen shit, Neen?” Brick calls. “You always say we should live in the present.”

  “I’m in the present. It sucks.”

  Brick’s laughter has her glaring.

  “Looks like the fan belt,” the driver says to her. “Need a replacement part.”

  “We don’t have time. Twenty-thousand ticket holders expect to see this show in six hours.”

  The new girl crosses to the truck’s passenger door and runs a finger over the logo there. “What if you borrow one?”

  “From where? We need this bus for the crew,” Nina says.

  “What about the other bus?”

  Every pair of eyes turns to me.

  “You mean my bus?”

  “Jax, this is Haley,” Nina murmurs almost as an afterthoug
ht. “It’s not the worst idea. If the parts are compatible.”

  The driver shrugs. “Serpentine belts come in a few lengths. Got some tools in the back. I can check it out.”

  “It is the worst idea,” I interrupt. “It’s right up there with asbestos and “Gangnam Style.” We’re not leaving my bus at the side of the road and waiting for AAA.”

  The crew looks between us. Few people would go toe to toe with me and even fewer that I’d stick around long enough to argue with.

  Nina squares her shoulders. “Jax, we have four hours of setup in Pittsburgh.”

  I don’t want to leave the crew stuck, and she knows it. It’s my name on the tour, but it’s their livelihoods.

  Nina closes the distance between us, her blue eyes the same color as her hair. When she speaks, it's for my ears only. “You have two interviews before tonight’s show. I know the full range of issues you have with this tour. But could you please assert yourself tomorrow?”

  Nina’s a pro, but I can see the panic under the edges.

  I rub a hand over my neck, which is suddenly itching like a mother. I can already tell it’s going to be one of those days.

  “Fine,” I decide. “Take what you need from under the hood, but I’m not leaving my bus.”

  “Thank you,” Nina mouths before turning on her heel. “Mace, Kyle, Brick, on the crew bus. Haley, I have a new assignment for you. Make sure Jax gets to the venue.”

  She’s gone before I can tell her that’s not part of the deal.

  Ninety minutes later, my band, my crew, and my instruments—save my favorite guitar—are pulling away down the road. My driver’s tucked into the cab of the bus, reading a paper, and I pretend I wasn’t just outsmarted by my three-time tour manager.

  I ascend the stairs to my bus, cursing as I trip over Mace’s LEGO at the top. I grab what’s left of it and set it on the coffee table, including the little pieces.

  No one tells you having a band’s like having toddlers.

  I shove the controllers off the couch, grab a seat cushion, and carry it back to the stairs.

  I toss it at the surprised-looking girl standing at the bottom.