Dress Rehearsal (A Rock Star Romance Series Book 1) Read online

  Dress Rehearsal

  A Rock Star Romance Series

  Sandra Alex

  Keep in touch with the author by Subscribing.

  ISBN 978-1-989427-42-2

  ISBN 978-1-989427-43-9

  Copyright © 2021 Sandra Alex

  All rights reserved.

  Table of Contents

  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

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Opening Night

  Extended Epilogue

  Keep In Touch

  Did You Enjoy This Book?

  Opening Night – Sample

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Billy

  As I watch my road manager’s face turn from stone to pasty behind the glass of the telephone booth, I’m trying to imagine what could possibly be worse than this. The tour bus broke down…twice. While they were relatively minor fixes, they still delayed our ETA in San Francisco by two hours. We’re opening for a headlining band called ‘Snake’, who is on a world tour. The bus stinks like sweat, old cigarettes, piss, stale beer, cheap gas, and if you take a cleansing breath, you can smell my bandmate Ivan’s puke from earlier. A lovely combination, which is only punctuated by the smell of deep-fried fast food coming from the restaurant parking lot where we’re sitting.

  “Yo, quit staring, man.” Neal, our lead singer, whines. “You’re making me fucking nervous.”

  My nose is pressed up against the glass as I watch Chris’s face and try to figure out what more has gone wrong. “What the fuck did he have to stop for, anyway? We’re already two fucking hours late, man.”

  Neal takes a drag of his cigarette and exhales. A grey cloud of smoke surrounds his face, like he’s fading in from a haze, before speaking. It’s kind of a cool effect seeing as the California sun is beating down on his face in a certain angle. “Because Todd told him to call if anything went wrong.”

  Todd is our general manager, and very short-tempered. I guffaw. “Yeah, a day late and a dollar short on that one. Then why didn’t he call him when the fucking tire blew ten miles back?”

  “Because he’d already called him when the goddamn hose blew an hour before that.”

  I crane my head back against the leather seat. As I pull it forward again, I can feel some of my hair sticking to it. This bus is the most disgusting thing on earth. I can’t wait until we’re making enough coin to do like the big boys do and take a goddamn plane.

  “Heads up.” Neal says, grunting as he sits forward. “Chris is coming back.”

  Ivan, our drummer, is passed out in the chair, completely oblivious to what is going on, and thank God. He’d be the one bitching the most over this apparent third bump in the road. Danny, our bassist, is also passed out, but not from too much to drink like Ivan. So it’s just Neal and I watching Chris as he steps up the stairs on the bus. My guitar is sitting in my lap, and I make no effort to move it, as I inch closer to Chris.

  “Hey, man, what’s the plan?” I say, trying to act casual, even though I’m on the edge of my seat.

  “Small problem in SoCal, my friends.” Chris states on exhale. He sits in the seat behind Barney, our driver. “The auditorium is on lockdown. Apparently, some gun-toting asshole decided to make a play for a bank just down the road from the building. The crew is already there, and they have a plan; they’re letting us in, but if they don’t get the place secured before our soundcheck, we may have to cancel the performance. Fans are already lined up outside the ticket wicket.”

  Neal pounds his fist on the leather seat. “Fucking Christ! This tour is a fucking bust, Chris!”

  I’m shaking my head, strumming on my guitar, trying to forget what Chris just said and focus solely on the fact that they’re going to let us in, and not leave us; a giant honking tour bus, in the middle of downtown Southern California, while some yahoo tries to escape from the arms of the law.

  Chris ignores Neal’s frustration. “They have a secondary plan in place. We do have a decent security team that are well trained with protocols for something like this.”

  “I bet Todd is wanting to cut us a new fucking hole, huh.” Neal says, sucking his teeth.

  Chris raises a brow. “In a manner of speaking. But not to worry, we’ll put out a kickass opening show like usual, and this’ll all blow over.” He gestures to Barney to get the ball rolling again. Barney pulls the lever to close the door, making a swooshing sound, and the bus chokes its way from park to drive, chugging into gear. And I rest my head back on the sticky chair, strumming away at my guitar.

  When we finally arrive at the auditorium, we’re guided into the back of the building, where we see few faces we recognize. Our sound crew among them, unloading equipment from a tractor trailer, and a cluster of security personnel, some bearing the ‘Storm’ logo, others bearing the auditorium’s logo, many more in the latter category, not the former.

  “Okay, boys, let me get off first. You stay put.” Chris instructs, and then he gestures to Ivan and Danny. “And wake these two fuckers up, would you?”

  Neal takes Ivan and I take Danny, giving him a nudge, which wakes him instantly. “Yo, man, we’re here. Get up.”

  He shakes his head, almost like he’s shivering as he wakes, tousling his long, shaggy, brownish waves. Danny is slightly shorter than me, but much more muscular, which makes him appear almost sumo wrestler-ish. He rises, rakes his hands through his messy hair, which is always messy anyway, regardless of how much he brushes it, and he sucks his teeth. “Where the fuck are we, again?”

  “San Bernardino. There’s a bit of a shit show here though. We gotta wait until Chris comes back to find out what the plan is.”

  Surprising me, Ivan overhears and chimes in. “What kind of shit show, man?” Ivan is very tall and slender, towering over me. He’s so tall that even when he has his full, all-encompassing drum kit decked out in front of him, the audience can still see almost the entire top half of his body. He’s a monster, but a gentle giant. Despite him being a power drinker, Ivan and I get along famously.

  “Some gunman, according to Chris. Todd’s having a fucking meltdown apparently.”

  “I’ll bet.” Ivan says with an eye roll. He looks better now that he’s slept it off, right after he puked most of it up. “We gonna have enough time for a proper sound check?” Ivan asks. “If we have to do another show with Billy’s fucking guitar blasting over everything, I’m going to go deaf.”

  “Let’s hope. Hopefully we’ll get one right after Snake’s.” Neal says. “We’ll have to see what Chris says.”

  “He better fucking make sure this time.” Ivan says, irritated. “That’s his job, isn’t it?”

  We all nod casually, without eye contact, when Chris appears at the bottom step. “We’ve got a plan. You boys will go with Michelle, and she’ll direct you to the dressing room, where you’ll stay until she can take you for the sound check.”

  “Who’s Michelle?” Neal asks.

  “One of our security personnel.” We’ve only hired our own security team recently, so I don’t understand why Neal is asking this.

  “Since when do we hire chicks for security?” he asks, clearly unimpressed.
br />   “She’s former military and quite qualified. Not to worry.” Chris says, blowing him off. “Billy, if I don’t make it for the sound check, please make sure that your guitars get tuned first.”

  “Will do.”

  “Okay. Michelle’s in the um…jacket.” Chris says reluctantly. It’s San Bernardino, California, in the middle of summer. Why is this girl wearing a jacket? I peek outside and I see that she’s the only one wearing one, and the hood is pulled up over her head. All the other security staff have on ‘Storm’ t-shirts, emblazoned with our logo on the front, and ‘Storm Security’ on the back.

  “What the fuck’s her deal?” Danny mutters, lifting a brow.

  We walk out of the bus, and someone from the auditorium personnel calls out to someone whom we presume is Michelle. “Channel five! Radio to Ned if you run into any trouble.”

  She nods and looks our way and adjusts the radio clipped to the belt on her pants. We’re parked close enough to the doors that it’s only a few steps into the building. The tractor trailers for our equipment and for Snake’s equipment are basically concealing the tour bus, and there is enough security, I assume, at the front of the building, to prevent any fans from coming into the back to greet us. Not to mention the slight curveball in the mix: the crazed gunman on the loose. I presume that the place is crawling with men in uniform all over the place.

  The radio is squawking slightly as we approach her, and she tunes the knob, turning it down. She says nothing to us, but leads us into the building, as if she knows it inside and out. Maybe she does. We’re led down a small corridor with cement walls, smelling vaguely like a swamp. It’s chilly inside, and we come to an elevator, a service elevator, and she pushes the call button. The door immediately opens, squeaking as the double panes move simultaneously.

  She goes in first and heads straight for the panel with all the buttons on it. “Michelle to Ned.” She says into the radio, after pulling it from her belt.

  “Go ahead.” The radio says back.

  “What’s the code for the service elevator?” her voice is firm, like a German woman you don’t want to fuck with. Maybe she is German, who knows. I can barely see her for the hood and sunglasses she’s wearing. The jacket is oversized, and she pulls the hood down, revealing a blonde mop of tidy hair, braided underneath. I can’t tell how long it is, since the tail end of the braid is trapped under the jacket. But I can assume that it’s long, seeing as the base of the French braid is rather thick.

  “Which one?” the person who I’ll assume is Ned, says.

  She removes her sunglasses and hooks them on the neck of her jacket, as she scans the panel for a number. “Six.” There is a vague but noticeable bruise on the side of her face by her temple.

  “Copy.”

  She waits. The elevator door is open, and I’m assuming it won’t close without the code. My guitar is set on the floor, propped up against my leg. Neal and I are looking at each other, unimpressed, until she speaks again.

  “Ned?”

  “Err…hang on.”

  “You got a spliff, man?” Neal says to me.

  I wave him off. “Shut the fuck up, man.” I mouth to him, eying our security person.

  He shrugs, unimpressed, bored. A long sigh before Ned comes back on again.

  “Trying to locate the code. Sit tight.” Ned says.

  Michelle, clearly agitated, draws in a deep breath. Her cheeks look flushed, which would be understandable given her attire. She’s dressed for winter temperatures, when it’s pushing one hundred degrees outside. Crouching down, she opens a tiny metal door just above the floor. Inside is a small receiver. She lifts the receiver and waits. When nothing happens, she shakes her head. “Sorry guys. Looks like someone is getting fired today.” She says, clearly pissed off. “You would think that with bands of your caliber paying homage here, that they would at least have the codes to the service elevators handy. This is bullshit.”

  “Don’t sweat it.” I say, feeling her annoyance. There’s nothing worse than people who are unprepared.

  “I know how to program this thing if needed.” She says, nodding at me. “I’ll need Ned’s help though, and I’m not sure of his level of competence.”

  “Do what you need to do, man.” Neal says. “I need to piss like a fucking racehorse.”

  “I’ll have you loose in five minutes tops. I promise.” She says, pulling a screwdriver out of her back pocket. Sliding it inside one of the screws on the side of the panel, she twists it until it’s wobbly, and she grabs it, places it in her jacket pocket, and repeats the process for the other three.

  “Ned to Michelle.” The radio squawks.

  She lifts the radio to her lips. “Go ahead.”

  “We’re still trying to locate the elevator codes.”

  A short, impatient sigh. “Forget the codes. I’m taking the panel off. Walk me through the wire patterns. I’m assuming you at least have those.”

  “Err…yeah. Right here in front of me.”

  She releases the call knob. “Thank Christ.” She mutters, before speaking to Ned again. “Alright, I’m ready.”

  Neal raises a hand. “Wait a second…this elevator’s not going to like, trap us in here, is it?”

  Michelle shakes her head. “Hold tight, Ned.” She says into the speaker first, before addressing Neal. “Elevator codes are usually under lock and key, especially when a building is under lockdown, so I can bypass the code by matching the proper wires so the elevator will move. We wouldn’t have to use the elevator if the dressing room wasn’t on the main floor, which isn’t secured. I’ve been instructed to take you upstairs to an alternate room that isn’t accessible to anyone from the main floor.”

  “How the fuck do you know all this?” Danny says, wincing, like he’s got zero confidence.

  “My father is an elevator repair man. I learned all this stuff after I learned how to walk.”

  “Isn’t there a key for this?” Ivan asks, clearly nervous.

  “Only a master key, and only the elevator company has one.” Michelle explains before addressing Ned again. “Okay, go on.”

  Neal rakes a hand through his hair, as all four of us watch Michelle place her radio on the floor, and manipulate the wires. “Okay, baby, find my sweet spot.” She murmurs to herself, as Ned calls off coordinates.

  My eyes bulge, and Neal snickers behind his hand.

  “Higher. That’s it. Keep going.” She encourages. Danny makes a lewd gesture with his pelvis and I swat him off. “Bring me home…that’s it. Oh, yes…almost there.” She whispers, and I can’t stop the smile from forming on my face. Her tongue is poking out from the side of her mouth. Ivan sticks his tongue out, mirroring her, only he adds a lewd gesture to the motion, too.

  Sighing, I watch her clip something onto a wire, and the door closes, startling me. Moving my guitar over slightly, I move in closer to the guys. Michelle peels off her jacket, and lays it on the floor beside the radio, and I can’t help but size her up. Underneath is a ‘Storm’ t-shirt, and a pair of black pants that look like they’re made from flame-retardant material. You could bounce a tennis ball off her ass it’s so tight. Her hair travels all the way down her back, snaking down to the crack of her ass.

  Danny gets a hard-on just looking at her. I can tell because he untucks his shirt, laying it on the front of his pants, like an apron. This is a gesture I’m used to seeing whenever groupies or hot chicks come near him. He tries to act all cool, but I can see right through him. He clears his throat and lifts his chin to her. “So, what now? You got the door closed.”

  Michelle ignores him, and takes the radio in her hand, speaking into it. “Ned, what floor is the secondary room located on?”

  “Um…three.”

  “Has it been secured?”

  “Errr…no.”

  She rolls her eyes, shaking her head, biting her lip in frustration. He continues. “The band’s road manager is arranging sound checks. They should be going there first.” Ned says.

&
nbsp; “I have the band here, Ned.” She says through gritted teeth. “In the elevator.”

  Is this guy for real?

  She’s exasperated. “Is there someone else I can speak with?” her head shakes slowly, as she punches the number three on the panel, and we start to move.

  “All hands are on deck, sweetheart.” Ned chuckles, and I feel my fists ball up.

  “I have no back-up here, Ned, and I have to go secure an area, leaving my post. Is there someone else I can speak with? Where the hell is their road manager?”

  “I told you, he’s arranging sound checks, babe.”

  “What about the manager?”

  I lift a finger, shaking my head. “He’s back in Florida. He’s not here.”

  She purses her lips, and then shakes her head again, before speaking into the walkie talkie. “Ned, I need you to find those codes while I deliver the band to the third floor. The elevator’s innards look like spaghetti right now.”

  “I’ll do what I can.” He says and then goes off.

  “Fucking idiot.” She says under her breath as we reach the third floor. Of course, the door does not open, as I suspected.

  “Are you able to open it?” I ask. I can see Neal squirming with his full bladder.

  The screwdriver that she used to unhinge the screws on the panel, she pulls out of her back pocket, and she walks closer to me. “Sorry, Mr. Nestor, can you kindly squeeze over a little?” she asks.

  “Oh…sure.” I grunt, picking my guitar up off my leg, and sliding over. “You can call me Billy, by the way.” I say casually. Hearing me being called ‘Mister Nestor’, I look around, thinking my dad is here.

  She smiles slightly but she doesn’t look at me, as she’s too busy prying the door open by sticking the screwdriver inside the tiny gap between the rubber on the door and the metal jam. It opens as soon as she applies enough pressure to it. When the door is open all the way, she slides the screwdriver in expertly, under the rubber, and clips the radio back onto her belt. “Please stay here while I secure the area. If there is any trouble, just yell, okay? I’ll be two minutes, tops.”