Sing to Me (Rock Me Book 3) Read online

  Sing to Me

  On Tour Duet

  Lee Piper

  Copyright 2019 by Lee Piper

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved.

  Editor: Olivia Ventura

  Hot Tree Editing

  www.hottreeediting.com

  Cover Design: Clarise Tan

  CT Cover Creations

  www.ctcovercreations.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Contents

  Also by Lee Piper

  About This Book

  Soundtrack

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Connect with Lee

  Coming Soon

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  To the voice inside my head that says I’m not good enough. Fuck you.

  Also by Lee Piper

  Rock Me Series

  Lie to Me

  End of Me

  Mondez Series

  Rock My World

  Rock My Body

  About This Book

  Never trust bad boy rockers.

  They lie.

  They cheat.

  They grasp with one hand and push away with the other.

  I’m done.

  He’s not.

  And when we finally collide, his heart will be on the line… because I’m not risking mine.

  Soundtrack

  “Luminary” –TesseracT

  “Smile” –TesseracT

  “Beneath My Skin/Mirror Image” –TesseracT

  “The Arrow” –TesseracT

  “Messenger” –TesseracT

  “Hexes” –TesseracT

  “Cages” –TesseracT

  Chapter One

  “Shit.” Hanging up, I glare at my phone. “Where are you?”

  Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t answer.

  “Swear to God, Uncle Ray. You’d better be dead in a ditch somewhere, or I’ll kill you myself.”

  Silence.

  After voice dialing him for the third time and getting no response, I cancel the call. “Goddammit.” Tipping my head back, I glower at the overhead rigging. “I don’t have time for this.”

  It’ll be impossible to search every bar within a thirty-mile radius and get the stage set up in time for sound check. With only forty minutes until the headline act is due to rock up, I’ll be lucky to finish unpacking equipment, let alone detach my uncle from whatever stool he’s parked his drunken ass on this time. Being a roadie is, at minimum, a two-person job. Hell, we’ve done tours where there were six of us working for one band. The fact I’m once again flying solo is….

  Gritting my teeth, I clench my fist.

  Anger is a luxury I can’t afford right now, so I shove my phone in the back pocket of my jeans and survey the stage; it’s a mess. The drum kit is half unpacked, the guitar is still in its case, the mic stand is who knows where in the wings, and the quad box, the one I know is a piece of shit, is hiding by the back curtain. There are a million and eight cable leads in a box near the amp, none of which have been taken out bar the couple looped over my shoulder, and I have no idea what to do with any of it because I don’t know the band’s specifications.

  So yeah, slowly drowning.

  Oh, and to add salt to the acid burn, The Collector has been silent for way too long. How’s a girl to focus on her work when she’s waiting for him to call and fuck with her head some more? Stupid debt. Should never have taken the risk. The payoff—or lack thereof—isn’t worth the threats. And they’ve been getting more… real lately.

  Rubbing my forehead with tense fingers, I try to focus on what’s most important: the stage and the fact it looks like a frat party gone wrong. The challenge is, every band is different. They each like to have the stage set up to suit their music and their performance style. It’s Ray’s and my job to make sure this happens as seamlessly as possible. Or, you know, at all.

  “Fuck.” Raking a hand through my hair, I spin in a slow circle, observing the music venue. It’s not huge. There’s a well-stocked bar to the left of the entrance and toilets to the right of it. An empty space lies dormant between them and the stage; the only people flitting past are front of house staff preparing for tonight’s turnout. And it’s going to be one hell of a shitstorm if I don’t figure this out.

  I pull out a wad of rolled-up paper from the other pocket of my jeans. I smooth the crinkled pages on my thigh, muttering, “Right. Let’s see what I’m working with.”

  The three-piece my uncle and I are touring with won Rising Star, a nationally televised talent quest for rock artists. I didn’t watch it because I was too busy working for another band at the time, but these guys have had a lot of press since winning the title a few months ago. Most of it had something to do with lead guitarist, Willow, screwing her music producer. Something about sleeping her way to the top. It’s bullshit as far as I’m concerned. I’ve heard their demos; any fool with ears knows the band is talented. They would have made it to the top regardless.

  I scan the printout of directions the band emailed. Personally. Like, they channeled their inner helicopter parent and then threw in some OCD for kicks. This list of directions could be a thesis, for Christ’s sake. Fucking thing could give War and Peace a run for its money.

  When I look at the notes again, I groan. Thousands of words blur on stark white paper. The letters dance across the page, refusing to settle in their rightful spots. I blame Uncle Ray. I’d never be in this situation if he’d done his damn job and explained the info when he printed it off. We have a system, damn it, and he’s screwing with it.

  I blink, refocus, concentrate on separating the b’s from d’s, the m’s from n’s, the clauses from the subjects.

  Nothing.

  The letters refuse to distinguish themselves as complete words, and I’m left more confused than when I started. It might as well be written in Kusunda.

  My curse echoes through the old theater, reverberating off the black brick walls, bouncing back louder than before. I pause. Sound tech will be stoked with the acoustics—silver linings and all.

  Determined not to let my uncle’s broken promise, my difficulty with reading, and the band’s assumption that I don’t know what a freaking audio input is get to me, I shake the tension from my shoulders. “C’mon, Harper. You’ve got this. Focus.”

  Brow furrowed, I scan several pages and pause on dot point sixty-three. At least, I’m guessing it’s sixty-three. Number recall isn’t my strong suit. Doesn’t matter, it’s one of the shorter directives so I’m rolling with it.

  In a slow, deliberate voice, I read out the instruction, only tripping a couple of
times on the words. “The fold—foldback—speaker needs to be exactly three feet from the mic stand. If the distance exceeds this spec—specif—specification, the gates of hell will open and Satan himself will incinerate you with his wrath.” I raise my eyebrows. “The fuck?”

  A low chuckle sounds.

  Spinning on my heel, I search the room for the source of the noise. Only, my view is blocked by a wall of chest. It’s huge, solid, and inches from my face. The torso is covered in a white T-shirt, the worn fabric stretching over tight muscles as the hint of spicy sandalwood wafts from the fibers.

  Whoa.

  The stranger is taller than me. A lot taller. His shoulders are wide, his neck lean, and jawline strong. Day-old stubble peppers pale skin, doing nothing to hide the cleft in his chin. Full pink lips, quirked into a half smile, grow wider the longer I look.

  Trying to re-insert the confusing wad of paper into my back pocket without breaking my gaze is like playing pin the tail on the donkey with vertigo—impossible.

  The guy has cheekbones that could cut glass, a straight nose, and the bluest of eyes fringed with thick lashes. Black hair, no doubt tousled by the fingers of a lover, falls messily around his face. It’s a symmetrical face, that of an angel—or devil, depending on who’s looking and what they want to find. Either way, there’s a juxtaposition of light and dark, humor and solemnity, compassion and indifference flitting across his features. The interplay is fascinating.

  I step backward. “Who are you?” My gaze darts left, then right. I’m not alone; front of house staff are hard at work organizing merchandise, tickets, and booze. However, sound tech isn’t due until I’m finished, and lighting tech will arrive sometime after that. So, I’m the only one—apart from the stranger—who’s back of house.

  Not that I’m scared for my safety; I can take care of myself. But why the hell is my heart hammering against my ribs? And what’s with the shortness of breath? I don’t like the way his presence sucks all the air from my lungs. It’s weird.

  Tipping my chin, I narrow my gaze, doing my best to warn him to back the hell up through pointed daggers alone.

  It doesn’t work. If anything, it makes his stupid gorgeous smirk widen. Guess, like me, he’s a slow learner. “I think the real question,” his deep baritone reverberates through my bones, “is who are you?”

  “I’m the girl who’s gonna kick your ass if you don’t get out of my face.”

  He blinks, then throws his head back and laughs. I’ve never seen anything like it. Not the laughing part, I’ve seen plenty of people think shit is funny before. But I’ve never seen someone do it so freely before. There are no layers, no pretenses, and no hidden agenda in his amusement. He’s completely unaffected, and it’s the momentary guilelessness that confuses me. I mean, moments ago he was a mixed message personified.

  Who is this person? My eyes are drawn to the Adam’s apple bobbing with each exhalation. For some reason, the movement causes blood to pound in my ears. I look away.

  When the stranger finally gets his laughter under control, he steps closer and holds out a hand. Like the rest of him, it’s big. “I’m Drake. Drake Stone.”

  “Great.”

  He smirks at my abruptness, seeming to find it amusing. Then, as though dealing with a novice, he indicates his outstretched fingers. “You gonna leave a guy hanging?”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  He doesn’t drop his hand. Nope, he continues staring at me with eyes that are filled with a complex emotional interplay. I guess he thinks that the twinkle shimmering within them, the one covering the shadows hidden behind, will change my mind.

  His lazy perusal takes in my caramel-blonde hair, tan, freckled skin, and green eyes. Intense blue irises rake my cheeks, nose, and come to rest on my mouth. It takes everything I have not to wet my lips. I really want to wet them.

  He blinks.

  I blink.

  He tips his head to one side.

  I tip mine to the other.

  He chuckles.

  I bite my cheek, refusing to smile.

  “C’mon, princess. Shake my hand.”

  Rolling my eyes, I mutter, “Fine, but if you call me that again, I’ll cut off your balls.”

  He snorts. “Cute. But you haven’t told me your name, and you’re really owning the whole damsel in distress thing, so it’s all I’ve got to work with.”

  “Hey, I’m not—”

  “Come on.” He beckons with his fingers. “I’m getting old here.”

  Grumbling under my breath, I decide to get it over with and slip my palm in his.

  It was only meant to take a second. It was supposed to be a quick hand pump followed by a hasty withdrawal. Only, when Drake’s palm presses against mine, something strange happens. The heat from his skin warms my fingers, and I get this weird sense of déjà vu.

  Our eyes lock.

  I pause.

  He stills.

  We’ve done this before. Somehow, somewhere, this man held me. The thought is disturbing. I’m not a fan of physical contact; a quick hug is fine, provided it’s with a person I know and they let go. Heck, I might even allow a guy to run his fingers along my body if the sex is good enough. But in both scenarios, no one holds me.

  Wrenching my hand away, I shove it behind my back.

  Drake furrows his brows. It’s as though he’s searching for an answer to a question I didn’t ask. I don’t know what he’s looking for. I don’t know what he wants to find. All I know is something inside me shifted and it’s not moving back.

  Confused and unnerved, I turn away. “I’ve got work to do.”

  I try to ignore Drake. For the next short while, I go about my business as though he never entered the theater and somehow altered the room’s chemical makeup. However, as I continue unpacking the equipment my hands shake, my movements are jerky, and I fumble more than once. Pissed that a man I’ve only just met has this type of effect on me, I mutter to myself to get a freaking grip. So what if you had a moment, Har? Moments happen, doesn’t mean anything. Heck, you can have a moment with a bass pedal if you try hard enough. Pull yourself together, girl.

  With effort, I shift the foldback speaker downstage. Even without seeing his face, I can sense Drake’s eyes on me. I imagine him scanning my body, leisurely taking in my scuffed combat boots, tight black jeans with more rips than denim, tan leather belt, and fitted white T-shirt. I picture his gaze skimming the blonde wavy hair that’s hanging loose down my back before coming to rest on the lead cables draped over one shoulder. “What’s your name?”

  I don’t answer.

  “Are you sound tech?”

  “No.”

  “Lighting tech?”

  “Would lighting tech be moving a foldback speaker?”

  “Touché.”

  Straightening, I walk as evenly as my wobbly legs will allow to the wings. Retrieving a mic stand, I unfold it and stride downstage. As I move past, Drake’s fingers skim my backside. I spin to face him, hands on hips. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Calm your farm, princess. As delectable as your ass is, I’m after this.” He waves the instructions in front of my face. “But if you want a decent ass-grab, I’m your man. Quality two-handed butt love right here.” He points to himself, his grin devilish. I swear, his eyes sparkle and everything. “Penetration included if you’re adventurous enough.”

  Pause.

  “Did you offer me anal play? We met five minutes ago.”

  Drake shrugs, unperturbed. “What can I say? I’m a giver.”

  Shocked by the crazy spilling from his mouth, I stumble over a reply. My mouth opens and closes, I even sound out a syllable at one point, but other than that, I’ve got nothing.

  With a deep chuckle, Drake scans the document. After a moment, blue eyes pin me in place. “You’re a roadie.”

  I tip my chin. “So what if I am?”

  “Have you read point thirty-five?”

  “What?”

/>   “Point thirty-five.” Drake flips over the page and indicates a number I can’t decipher. “The two overhead mics for Reid’s drumkit need to be one foot away or else the flames of a thousand suns will befall you. The heat will be so intense your skin will fry and your bones will melt until nothing but ash remains.” His smile is self-indulgent. “Literary genius right there.”

  “That’s the most ridiculous instruction I’ve ever heard.”

  “The imagery is on point, though. Don’t you think?”

  A sense of foreboding forms. It grows stronger the longer I stare at Drake’s cocky grin. “Oh God. You wrote it, didn’t you?”

  He has the decency to appear sheepish. “I didn’t write all twelve pages. Points one to seventy-eight are mine, the rest are Willow’s.” He runs long fingers through his hair and, I swear, flexes his bicep. “She confiscated my laptop after that.”

  I swallow. “So, if Willow’s the guitarist and Reid’s the drummer, that makes you—”

  “Lead singer, baby.”

  Internally, I groan. Then I groan out loud because I don’t care if he hears me. Lead singers are the worst. They have egos the size of Texas and enough groupies to reinforce their delusion. I’ve dislocated the shoulder of many an arrogant asshole who thought I was fair game because I have breasts and love rock music. Thankfully, jerks like that don’t make the same mistake twice. I hope Drake doesn’t try to take advantage. His face is too pretty to disfigure.

  The lead singer must notice I haven’t dropped my panties and switched on runway lights leading to my vagina, because he lowers his arm. A small frown tugs the corner of his lips. “You got a problem with me, princess?”