One More Night (Backstage Pass Book 1)

  Table of Contents

  Description

  Find Ali Parker

  Introduction

  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

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogiue

  Stage Left

  Center Stage

  Understudy

  Improv

  Final Call

  Insider Group

  About the Author

  Copyright

  One More Night

  Backstage Pass Book 1

  By

  Ali Parker

  Description

  Music is my escape.

  My band, Destitute, has never had an easy road to the top. It’s been a fight, a hustle, a struggle every step of the way, but we did it.

  We’re the biggest band in all of LA. No one can take that from us. Not even the demons in our past.

  Most of the fuckers walking around these streets perceive me as arrogant and wild, but I worked hard to earn those stigmas.

  It’s all part of the game.

  Woman come and go like the wind. None of them looking for love, but lust, fame - my money.

  But who could blame them? A cold-hearted bastard like me deserves what he gets, until her.

  Our new PR agent shakes me to the core of my being, wakes me up, forces me to feel things I thought were long gone.

  I only have one rule – never get involved with anyone in the business.

  Good thing rules were meant to be broken.

  Find Ali Parker

  www.aliparkerbooks.com

  Introduction

  Check these out HERE

  CHAPTER 1

  JARED

  The Pacific Ocean winked at me in the distance, its deep blue waters calm under the orange glow of sunset. The view from up here was one I never thought I’d ever get to see. Now, I owned it. Free and clear.

  Fuck yeah.

  “Here’s to living the dream, babe.” I toasted whatsername. It might be Marilyn. Or Madison. Possibly Madeline? It was something with an “M,” definitely.

  She raised her flute, filled with champagne that cost over a thousand bucks a bottle, to my tumbler of scotch, giggling as the crystal clinked.

  “You sure are,” she said, casting her light blue eyes across my bar and entertainment area. Both were huge. Modern and open, white, sharp-angled, and built for debauchery with bottles lining every shelf behind the bar. Complete with couches, loungers, and a fire pit. And that view.

  Unlike so many of my peers, I hadn’t opted for a house with sky-high walls and impenetrable boundaries. I had enough to keep me safe, and that was it.

  Barely.

  I didn’t care about candid shots of naked chicks in my infinity pool, or paparazzi outside when I headed to the studio in the mornings.

  I’d busted my ass to get recognized. Why try to hide now?

  I wasn’t stupid. I knew the day would come when I got the fuck over seeing my picture online, or some headline or other screaming about my antics the night before.

  But that day wasn’t today. I was living the high life, and I intended on enjoying every fucking minute of it.

  “What is it you do?” I asked, feigning interest in the professional groupie sitting at the other end of my built-in, imported-marble bar.

  “This and that,” she answered, sipping on her champagne as she fixed me with a flirtatious smile. “I’d love to be a singer, just like you.”

  “Yeah?” I flashed her my trademark smirk, the one that had been labeled by magazines and blogs alike as having the power to make your panties walk away by themselves. I couldn’t even make that shit up.

  “Yes, I’m putting money away to fund some studio time soon,” she crooned.

  Oh, honey. That wasn’t going to work. Not if she wasn’t getting out there at the same time. No one was going to buy a single dropped by a self-funded nobody, and while she could send it out, if there was nowhere to hear her live, they weren’t going to bite on a record deal.

  “That’s great.” I told her, because I wasn’t an agent, manager, or PR person. “We’re actually in the studio right now.”

  “I heard,” she said, sweeping her dark hair over her shoulder. “Third album in two years.”

  Officially, yes. The third since Destitute had finally broken out of the local Los Angeles scene to global stardom two years ago. But those years before, the ones we’d spent on couches and carpets before that happened, nobody seemed to remember those.

  Instead of saying all that shit, though, I smiled and refilled her champagne flute and my scotch. “It’s been a busy couple of years.”

  That wasn’t a lie. What nobody told me about finally taking off was that I’d better be fucking ready for a crazy ass schedule and learn to love packing, flying, and hotel beds.

  “I can imagine,” she said.

  No, she really couldn’t.

  Between the press junkets, shows, parties, rehearsals, sound checks, recording, writing, and juggling all of the above and so much fucking more, our schedules were insane.

  And none of us would have it any other way. I knew that I wouldn’t, anyway. Too many years of missing the bus by just one song, one take, had prepared me as much as humanly possible. I was the lead singer of Destitute, and a lot of people assumed that meant nothing more than learning lyrics and moaning them out loud, but I lived, breathed, and slept music.

  “How’s the album going?” she asked, twirling a strand of long, dark hair, that would soon be wrapped around my fist as I gave it to her from behind, between her fingers.

  Her blue eyes were fixed on mine, but they weren’t innocent or lively. If anything, they were the exact opposite. I knew that look, but I wasn’t succumbing to it. She wanted more than my cock. She wanted my life, my mic, my connections. My help.

  “It’s great, actually,” I told her. I knew that I was bragging, but I didn’t give two shits. “We’re laying down new tracks almost every day.”

  “I heard you had a tour coming up?” Those eyes didn’t release mine, but I was up for the challenge. Always.

  “We do. Worldwide this time.” So far, our tours had been to mainly in North and South America and Europe. We’d played isolated shows in Asia, Africa, and Australia, but our upcoming tour was going to be a beast.

  “Wow,” she purred. “I admire that.”

  “It’s hard work, but it pays off big time.” This talking thing was getting old real fast. Madison was what I liked to call a “sure thing.” An arrogant and perhaps chauvinistic term, yes. But it didn’t make it any less true.

  Neither of us had left the raging party at Nick’s house earlier for a chat and a wedding ceremony. She was creaming for a rock star, and I happened to be the Emperor of Rock.

  Without much talk, I’d asked her if she wanted to come home with me, and she’d said yes. End of story.

  I had a designated guestroom at Nick’s, as I should, considering that he was my rhythm guitarist, basically a brother, and we all spent an inordinat
e amount of time together, but I wasn’t in the mood to navigate the pool of bodies that was bound to be on his floor in the morning.

  Inviting Madison, or whatever her name was, back to my place seemed preferable to that scenario. I could control things here. I was horny as fuck and didn’t want to deal with intrusions, bandmates climbing into bed with us, or humoring other people.

  I just wanted to fuck. Madison seemed up for it, until I’d brought her back to my four-thousand square foot Indonesian style home that was.

  Outdoor living and a home that gave me as much of that as possible was my dream come true, and as soon I saw this place, I bought it. My actual brother, a.k.a Caleb, our lead guitarist, thought I was mad for having bought it so quickly, but he knew as little about money as I did at the time, and I’d been told that it was a solid investment. Not that that meant shit to me. We were rolling in it.

  Literally, some nights.

  One of the biggest benefits of this lifestyle was the pussy that came with it. Expensive houses, cars, planes, and fully-stocked limos were great, but I couldn’t fuck those things.

  Madison, on the other hand, was here to fuck. It was time to get serious, even if it meant talking up her dead-end career in music for a little while.

  “You’re recording an album?” I asked, redirecting the conversation to her. “Congratulations!”

  It was fake as balls, but I knew that women liked to have some sort of fucking interest showed in them before they put out.

  She beamed at me. “Thank you. Your support means everything to me.”

  Jesus, it sounded like she was accepting a Grammy Award. I would know. I had a few lining my mantle, along with a couple of other statues and plaques.

  “Of course,” I lied. “Artists have to support each other, right?”

  I could practically see her falling hook, line, and motherfucking sinker for the line.

  “You know, a little birdy whispered in my ear that you were as charming as you were handsome, Jared Larson. It wasn’t wrong. You have quite the reputation in this town.”

  “It’s well deserved, I promise you. Would you like to see?”

  Her eyes flashed, and her nostrils flared, her thighs pinching together on the steel-framed barstool she was sitting on.

  And we have a go.

  I held my hand out to her when I rounded the bar, and she took it. Rising to her full height as she rose, I was struck again by how tall she was for a woman, almost my height, even. I led her inside through the glass sliding door and up the wooden staircase that led to my bedrooms. She was quiet, taking in her surroundings, no doubt.

  The house was designed to make you feel like you were outside, or maybe in a gigantic, expensive treehouse. The windows were all floor-to-ceiling, and the walls were painted natural green, with posters of my rock idols, candid black and white shots of the band, and lined with some art the interior decorator had chosen for me.

  Minutes later, I had her in my guestroom because my bedroom was for me. It was where I slept, not where I fucked. Her mouth was wrapped around my cock, and my fists were in that shiny auburn hair.

  She was as good with her mouth as I’d known she would be, her tongue smooth on my tip, expertly working me up and down. The pressure on my cock was like a suction cup, and her hands stroked my dick and balls purposefully.

  Worked up as I was, I could easily have blown my load right then and there, but I had a reputation to protect, apparently, and a few rules to abide by.

  The first of which was ladies first. I was an asshole, but a generous one. Besides, getting women off got me off. The sounds they made, the way their bodies tensed and writhed, it was intoxicating.

  It was a rule that I stuck by, mostly, but fuck if that didn’t feel good.

  The Jared Larson Experience, which I hadn’t named myself, was a blog run by two women, neither of whom I could remember actually sleeping with, who claimed that I literally came with a three-orgasm guarantee.

  Some people might’ve been offended, but I wasn’t. I was damn proud of it.

  In an industry known for its rebels and bad boys, I wasn’t the King or the Prince—both of those titles had been claimed long before I came along—but I was the Emperor of Rock now, and I was more than happy to be the kind of guy that I was expected to be. I thrived on it, even.

  But I wouldn’t be able to do that if I let her continue feasting on my dick. I was seconds away from exploding, and it was time to tap out. I lifted Madison under her arms, tossed her on the bed, lifted her little white dress, and licked her with the same enthusiasm as she had me.

  Sliding my fingers through her lips, I found her wet and ready. Just the way I fucking liked it.

  “Good girl,” I mumbled against her pussy.

  She mewled in response, and her thighs tightened around my head. “Keep those legs spread for me, baby.”

  I rewarded her for doing as I asked, sucking her hardened clit into my mouth and drawing hard. Twice. Her pussy clamped down on my fingers, and I knew that she was getting close. Surprisingly, she stopped me, tugging at my short hair. She just about ripped it out as she pulled my face up to hers, her eyes wild as they bored into mine.

  “I want you inside me when I come,” she whimpered, her fit body writhing against me, even though I was still dressed. She’d whipped my dick out of my pants when we’d gotten to the room earlier, but neither of us had bothered with getting our clothes off.

  “Your call,” I told her. “Just so you know, I would’ve made you come on my cock either way.”

  “I know,” she purred. “This way is just better for me.”

  I could live with that. Pulling my shirt off with one hand and unbuttoning my jeans with the other, I reached for a condom in the nightstand when I was done.

  “I’m on the pill,” she told me, eyes unwavering. “You can take me bare, baby.”

  That was a firm no. Always had been. “This is for you, too.”

  Justifying my condom habit, despite whatever pleas I heard, had become something of a ritual for me. I didn’t even really think about it anymore. I didn’t want the girls I fucked to think I didn’t trust them, even when I didn’t, so I had a default answer prepared for occasions such as this.

  “I haven’t been tested for a while,” I lied smoothly. My last test results actually came in a week ago, and I was squeaky clean. Viva condoms!

  “Okay, if that’s what you want,” she murmured.

  It wasn’t necessarily, but I knew better, so I sheathed myself and positioned myself between her legs. “Hang on to the sheets, baby.”

  She didn’t. She hung on to my shoulders as I plunged inside of her not-so-tight, but very wet, hole. Instinct took over from there. My body knew exactly what to do, and I did it, surrendering all pretense of thought as I thrust into her.

  Establishing a rhythm that felt way too fucking good, my palms braced on the crisp white sheets she lay on, the cushioned, fabric-covered headboard slammed into the wall behind our heads as I gave her my cock. I also gave her three orgasms before finally allowing the base of my spine to ignite with white-hot heat that swept through my body as I emptied myself into the condom.

  The tremors were barely subsiding when I slid out of her, off the bed, and back into my briefs and jeans. She was breathing hard, the sheets rumpled but not even off the bed, looking up with a satisfied smile like she was expecting me to come back to bed.

  “Thanks, babe. I needed that.”

  Her eyebrows shot up as she propped herself onto her elbows. “Wait, that’s it?”

  “Yeah, I have somewhere to be,” I told her, reaching down and pulling my shirt over my head. “You better hurry up and get dressed, babe. I’m already running late.”

  Eyes darting to the clock on the wall, she huffed out an incredulous sigh. “It’s late, Jared. I can’t believe you.”

  “Exactly. You know how it is. People think rock stars never sleep, so they schedule shit at random times.” I shrugged and motioned to her dress that I�
��d ripped off and discarded next to the bed at some point while fucking her. “I gotta go. Think about it this way, you still have a great story to tell your friends.”

  “You’re something else, you know that, asshole?” she spat out, delivering a swift slap that stung my cheek and echoed in the quiet room. Then she grabbed her dress off the floor and stormed out.

  “Story of my fucking life.” I chuckled in the empty room, shook my head, and headed for my garage, amused more than I probably should have been by the whole situation.

  CHAPTER 2

  ALICIA

  “You don’t understand, Alicia,” Gerry said, slamming his hands down on his massive desk, his face reddening as his rant continued. “These guys aren’t just loud, drunk, or rowdy. They’re arrogant, rambunctious, and downright impossible sometimes.”

  I was starting as the public relations agent for a band called Destitute in the morning, and I was meeting with Gerry Thomas, their manager, to discuss my role and what was expected of me. So far, Gerry had been quite condescending toward the members of the international rock sensation, and clearly, he didn’t think that I would be able to handle them.

  “I do understand, Gerry. I might be young, but I have been working in the music industry for six years now, doing promotion and public relations full-time. Destitute won’t be the first band that I’ve worked for.”

  Running his hand through his dyed black hair, he shot me a look that said that he wasn’t convinced and sighed. “I know. You came highly recommended. I just still can’t believe that Brad retired, and now, I’m stuck training someone new.”

  The band’s former public relations agent, Brad, had retired at the end of the month before, privately citing Destitute’s antics as one of the major reasons.

  “I’m not new to this job, and you don’t need to train me,” I told him confidently. “The bands that I’ve worked with before were pretty needy and troublesome. I can deal with Destitute.”

  “If you say so. Did you know that Matt and Jared stole the Ford Anglia that was used in the second Harry Potter film from a guy that they knew once?”