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CHAPTER1
The cell phoneshould have woken him, but it was the loud banging on the door that cut through Cal Bridgestone’s whiskey-soaked dreams. With a groan, he swore under his breath and slid one eye open. A mess of blonde hair and the kind of tanned skin only achieved from a spray bottle filled his vision. He blinked again and slowly rolled onto his other side, only to find another warm body splayed across the bed. This one a brunette. Short pixie hair, long muscular legs, and in possession of more tattoos than any man he knew.
A crooked smile slid across his face. She’d been bendy, that one.
The banging got louder, and he frowned, moving the snoring brunette enough for him to slide into a seated position at the end of a bed that could fit five. Easily. Brain a little foggy, he gave his head a shake (wrong thing to do) and swore as pain radiated across his forehead. It took a bit, but his eyes adjusted, and Cal peered through the gloom at the clothes scattered across the floor. A sliver of sunlight had managed to find its way inside from between the heavy blinds that fell across the lavish suite, and he spied a lacy pink bra hanging from the chandelier over the bed. As his eyes sharpened some more and moved across the room, he saw the matching undies among the empty bottles of booze that cluttered the large coffee table, or as his housekeeper Janet called it, anoccasionaltable. Champagne glasses, one on its side, were perched on top of the bar along with an empty liquor bottle, and there appeared to be some broken glass on the floor nearby.
“Damn,” he muttered.That was one hell of a night. His frown deepened as he got to his feet and searched for his boxers. He found them bundled up in the corner where the blonde had pulled them off the night before and, after sliding them on, ran his hands through the tangle of hair at his nape.
He wondered where the boys were, his guitarist Matty and drummer Ollie in particular, because they’d come back after the show. A small groan escaped his lips as another round of pain shot through his head. It could have been because of what undoubtedly was going to be an epic hangover, but he was betting it was on account of a renewed banging at the door.
He was getting too old for this shit.
He swore under his breath as he made his way through the suite and over to the door. “Calm down.” He opened it just as Ivy Wilkens, his best friend and PA, was about to kick the damn thing in. “What the hell?”
“I’ve been calling your cell for two hours.” She was pissed and not trying to hide it.
“I don’t know where my cell is.”
“Shocking.” The sarcasm, man, it was heavy.
He had nothing for that. Not that it mattered, because she went on, her voice rising with each word.
“And why are the phones in your suite not working?”
He winked at her because he knew it would piss her off even more. “I had a little party last night and told them I didn’t want to be disturbed.”
“Them?” she shot back. “Who is them?”
He gave her a moment. She was not happy with him. “The people at the front desk?”
She gave him a look that was part exasperation and part something else. If he was fully awake and in charge of his faculties, he might have been concerned about the something else, but as it was, Cal’s frown deepened. It was too early for her to be on fire about something he’d done between the show the night before and right now. Heck, it was just normal shenanigans, as far as he could remember. The boys in the band, a couple of girls, and a whole lot of Mr. Daniels.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
She held his gaze for all of two seconds before her eyes slid from his and she moved past him, toward the bed, which was perched on a pedestal at the far end of the suite. Cal grabbed a water bottle from the bar and waited for the shitstorm to hit. The girls would want to stay—they always did—but Ivy wasn’t in the mood. That much was clear.
She found the remote for the blinds, and sunlight filled the room as she walked over to the bed, throwing clothes at the girls and telling them to get the hell up as she did so. Neither one of them listened, though the brunette managed a middle-finger salute.
Shit, this was gonna be good.
Ivy found a pinkish sparkly boot and threw it at the bed, missing little pixie cut by an inch and hitting the wall with a thud.
“You bitch!” the woman yelled. “If that hit me, I could have you charged with assault.”
She wasn’t wrong, but what she didn’t know was that back in the day, Ivy was the best damn shortstop the Wolverines had ever seen, and she could have hit her square in the face. If she’d wanted to, that was.
Ivy said nothing. She picked up the second boot, and it landed in the same spot as the first. Almost instantly, there was a shriek that cut through the fog in Cal’s head, followed by a string of profanity that would impress most of the men he knew—and they could swear like truckers. He took a swig of water, impressed with pixie cut’s vocabulary, and after a bunch more swearing and a whole lot of shouting, she stumbled off the bed, clutching a shimmery blue dress across her breasts. The blonde finally poked up her head and moved her hair from her face, eyes already seductive and on the prowl as they slid from Cal to Ivy.
“What’s going on?” she asked, stretching her arms far above her head and putting her silicone-filled double D’s on display. “Why do you have to be so loud?”
“I’m guessing you’re the pink dress.” Ivy tossed a few slips of material onto the bed. “Mr. Bridgestone would like to thank you for accompanying him back from the show, but it’s time to go.”
“Cal,” the blonde said, making one syllable stretch into two. She turned to him, her voice raspy from what he guessed was a pack-a-day habit. An exaggerated pout made her overly plump mouth look ridiculous. “You said we could go to the next show with you.”
“That sure would have been fun, but darlin’…” He pointed to the slim redhead whose narrowed eyes were about to spew bullets. “Ivy here says it’s time to shut down our little party and, well, she kind of runs things.” He kept his tone light, but truthfully in the harsh light of day, he was embarrassed for Ivy to be here with him.
The blonde shot a hateful look at Ivy before turning back to him. “You’re Cal Fucking Bridgestone. Who cares what some dumb chick with glasses the size of coke bottles says?”
