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  Secret Confessions: Backstage

  Jet

  Rhian Cahill

  www.escapepublishing.com.au

  Secret Confessions: Backstage

  Jet

  Rhian Cahill

  An All-Access pass to Sex, Love, and Rock’N‘Roll. Because what happens on tour doesn’t always stay on tour…

  From Australia to the world…

  Chicago. The last stop of their wildly successful US tour sees Australia’s biggest rock band The Screaming Tuesdays in sultry, summertime Chicago to play two sold-out shows. But the stage is not where the action is, and no one knows what goes on behind the scenes…

  Jet’s never seen a woman project ‘No Touching’ quite so effectively as Charlie, the music journalist travelling with the band. He’s never been into the chase, but there’s something about Charlie that just won’t let him go. Now that the tour is winding down, there’s only one order of business left—an in-depth interview that’s about to go a lot deeper than either of them expect.

  Secret Confessions: Backstage

  Reading order

  1. Chase—K.M. Golland

  2. Josh—Eden Summers

  3. Yanis—Lexxie Couper

  4. Theo—Zaide Bishop

  5. Kelly—Shona Husk

  6. Jet—Rhian Cahill

  About the Author

  Rhian Cahill is the alter ego of a stay-at-home mother of four. With motherly duties rapidly dwindling, Rhian is able to make use of the fertile imagination she used to keep herself sane for all those years of slavery. Having spent some years living overseas and visiting tropical climates has helped inspire some steamy stories. Multi-published in erotic romance and contemporary romance, Rhian, with the help of Mr Muse, spends her days and nights writing.

  When not glued to the keyboard you’ll find her, book in hand, avoiding any and all housework as much as possible.

  For more on Rhian visit her website http://www.rhiancahill.com

  You can contact her at [email protected] or connect on Twitter https://twitter.com/RhianCahill or Facebook https://www.facebook.com/RhianCahillAuthor

  You can download Rhian’s free app from the iTunes or Google Play stores.

  Newsletter signup—http://eepurl.com/byrsf

  Goodreads page— https://www.goodreads.com/rhian_cahill

  Acknowledgements

  I seem to say this a lot but a big THANK YOU to Kate. You’re more than an editor. You’re a friend. I’m humbled by your faith in me.

  And I have to acknowledge Ainslie Paton and Erin Nicholas. You girls kept me sane when everything was chaos. Thanks for holding my hand.

  To Mr C. You don’t need to be a rock star to rock my world.

  Contents

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Episode 6—Jet

  Bestselling Titles by Escape Publishing…

  Episode 6—Jet

  The slam of the door exploded like a clap of thunder in his head. “Fuck.”

  His worn Chucks squeaked on the pristine Italian marble floor, scraping over nerves already frayed. Jet shoved his fingers through his hair, yanking on the ends until the sting hurt enough to draw his attention. But it couldn’t take his mind off the coming disaster.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  How the hell was he supposed to spend the next hour or so in here with Charlie Harris? It was bad enough he’d agreed to do this in-depth interview. Three months ago it had seemed like an easy yes. But that was before he’d met Charlie. Now that he had…

  In Jet’s mind, Charlie Harris should have been a crusty old rock journo who’d been around when Mick Jagger and The Rolling Stones were in their prime.

  After having Charlie Harris spend three months trailing behind The Screaming Tuesdays—with an all-access pass to the band—Jet wasn’t anywhere near ready to reveal all to the real Charlie Harris.

  Okay, that was a lie.

  He’d like to reveal everything to Charlie—Charlotte—Harris. Except stripping them both naked and pressing her against the nearest flat surface probably wasn’t what his manager—or Charlie—had in mind when they said bare all.

  His hands clenched.

  For the first time in months he craved a drink.

  When they’d kicked off the US leg of their tour, Jet had decided to go dry. He wasn’t an alcoholic by any stretch of the imagination, but he knew if he was going to keep performing to peak level at every gig he couldn’t afford to fill his body with booze night after night.

  The guys thought he was mad. Had made bets on how long he’d last—that he wouldn’t make it a day. No one had scooped that prize pool.

  He’d been surprised how easy it was, which made the rush of desire to open the bottle of scotch—his drink of choice—sitting in the suite’s bar a complete shock.

  Then again, everything he felt with regard to Charlie Harris was a shock.

  She had him before hello.

  All she’d had to do was walk into the room on those mile-long legs made for wrapping around a man’s—his—waist, and that sleek body designed specifically for a man’s—his—hands, and Jet was cracking wood at every turn.

  The term blue balls had never been so real.

  God. He needed a shower.

  One: to wash away the sweat that had his clothes clinging to him after tonight’s show.

  Two: to wrap his hand around his cock and get rid of the hard-on in his pants.

  Not that he expected any real relief from the second.

  He’d lost count of the number of times he’d jacked-off while imagining Charlie over the last few months. He could guess once a day, but he’d be lying. It was more. It had to be. She haunted his every sleeping and waking moment and for a while he’d believed he was alone in his attraction.

  She barely gave him a glance.

  He was so used to women—even guys—eyeing him with an I-wanna-fuck-you look. He’d been voted Australian Cleo’s Bachelor of the Year two years running and it wasn’t purely because he could sing and The Screaming Tuesdays were topping the charts with every release.

  And yet, Charlie Harris seemed immune to his appeal.

  Except for the pulse of energy that always surrounded them when they were in the same room.

  Jet scrubbed a hand down his face. He wasn’t sure whether he liked her attempt to ignore their attraction or not. It was certainly refreshing compared to the usual drop-at-his-feet female attention he received. He could have any woman he wanted, but the one he did want appeared as though she wouldn’t spit on him if he were on fire.

  It shouldn’t bother him.

  It did.

  He wanted Charlie to notice him. Wanted her to feel as gutted, as raw, as he did whenever she was around.

  No woman had ever had this much pull on him. He couldn’t explain it. Didn’t understand it. And wasn’t all that sure he wanted to pursue it.

  He just knew he couldn’t ignore it.

  As of tonight, the American leg of the tour was over. They had a few days before they had to board a flight to Europe. Right now the crew were breaking down their gear and packing it into containers ready to ship halfway across the globe tomorrow afternoon.

  Making his way through the suite, Jet wondered again why their manager had booked them into this over-the-top opulent hotel. Time was they all bunked in together, either on a bus or in cheap motels. They’d been doing it for years—were used to it—besides, it saved money.

  Not that they needed to save money these days. One of the benefits of their recent rise to fame was the money. One of the few he liked—appreciated. He didn’t want to feel ungrateful, but he’d grown wary of the fame, the notoriety. The groupies that seemed to surround them twenty-four-seven.

  And he wasn’t just talking about the ones who droppe
d to their knees and offered to suck his cock. No. They were the easiest ones to dismiss. It was the industry groupies that made his skin crawl, his gut churn.

  Everyone wanted a piece of them.

  The Screaming Tuesdays were a success story to inspire the masses—four guys from middle-class backgrounds making it big—and their record company’s PR team, with their manager’s approval, never failed to remind those masses of exactly that.

  Something else Jet wasn’t happy about. He wanted recognition for the music not how far they’d come or where they’d come from.

  Stripping off his shirt, he tossed it on the floor as he entered the bathroom and walked over to the shower big enough for the entire crew to wash in without anyone bumping elbows. Jet shook his head. He couldn’t wait to get home to his one-bedroom apartment overlooking Bondi Beach. He’d bought it for the view and location, but the older building and, what some might call ancient amenities, suited him far better than this extravagant hotel.

  The four-note opening of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5 echoed through the suite.

  Jet rolled his eyes. “Seriously? Who uses that as a doorbell?”

  Reversing direction, he headed back to the living room.

  Jet could hear Yanis’s voice and figured he’d let himself—and no doubt Charlie—in with the key he insisted on having for each of their rooms. Why their manager felt the need to keep a tight rein on the band now they’d hit the big-time boggled Jet’s mind. The man had never been concerned with what they did off-stage before this tour.

  “Hey. There you are. Ready for your interview?” Yanis moved towards him with his shark smile, stretching his lips over his too-white teeth.

  “As I’ll ever be,” Jet mumbled through his clenched jaw while forcing his mouth into a smile.

  “Well I’m sure you two don’t need a chaperone.” Yanis glanced between them.

  Jet nodded at Charlie who remained by the door as though preparing for a quick getaway. Hitching his voice up a notch so it travelled across the cavernous space, he said, “Take a seat. I’m gonna grab a quick shower. Help yourself to a drink.”

  “I’ll have room service send up food,” Yanis said, loud enough to carry to Charlie before clapping a hand on Jet’s shoulder, his fingers digging in, and muttering under his breath, “Don’t fuck this up, Jet.”

  Jet frowned. Lowering his voice, he asked, “And how would I do that?”

  “Continuing to strut around without clothes on is a good start. She’s not one of your groupies.” Yanis spun on his heel and walked back to Charlie and Jet had to check the urge to punch his manager in the back of his head.

  The man had been pissing Jet off more and more as the tour wore on. He’d be glad to go without seeing Yanis for a few days once they got this last piece of tour business—his in-depth interview—out of the way.

  Jet plastered on a smile and called out, “Back in five.”

  He jogged back to the bathroom and stripped out of his remaining clothes. He tried to remember if he’d left his notebook on the coffee table before leaving for the stadium earlier. The last thing he needed was Yanis—or Charlie—getting a look at the new songs he was working on. But the memory of where he’d last had it wouldn’t solidify so he rushed through his shower and grabbed the first clean pair of pants he got his hands on.

  Sweats.

  Great. Now if he got a hard-on sitting across from Charlie—which was a given—she’d be all too aware of where his mind went whenever she was around. And God help him if Yanis discovered his attraction to their ‘exclusive’ reporter.

  He’d like to think months of abstinence had his cock on a hair trigger. He knew better.

  It was Charlie.

  If it wasn’t, he’d be panting after any female or dipping his dick in the easy pussy surrounding the band. The thought of the latter made him cringe, his balls shrivel.

  Pulling a t-shirt over his head, Jet made his way down the hall. Back to Charlie. He didn’t immediately see her when he entered the room. Scanning the large space, he found her standing in front of the floor to ceiling windows that delivered an unobstructed view of Chicago and Lake Michigan.

  He moved beside her and stared out at the sparkling lights and vast expanse of water. “Great view, isn’t it?”

  “Hmm.” She turned away from the window. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Jet didn’t want to take offense at her tone or her apparent rush to get it done, but he did. “Got a hot date?”

  Her head snapped around, her gaze colliding with his. “No.”

  A single word. One syllable. Two letters. Fired from her mouth like a bullet from a gun.

  Taut muscles relaxed. Air rushed from his lungs.

  Surprise flashed in her eyes before shutters came down. He’d never seen anyone mask their emotions the way Charlie did. For a while Jet had thought she didn’t feel anything at all, but, as the weeks wore on, he’d discovered the small tells that sometimes slipped through her cool, composed façade.

  Nothing ruffled her though. And Jet wanted her ruffled.

  Badly.

  He swept out his arm. “Shall we?”

  Charlie gave a nod and, spine straight, head high, walked to the leather couch.

  “Do you want a drink?” He glanced around. “Did Yanis order food?”

  “I’ve eaten.” She reached inside the bag slung over her shoulder. When she pulled out a small recording device and glanced up, she frowned. “Oh. Sorry. Did you want something to eat?”

  He never ate after a show. Something about the adrenaline pumping through his system and food didn’t mix. “No. I’m good.”

  “We should get started then.”

  “Sure.” Jet dropped to the couch beside her. This close he could smell her. Something sweet. A touch of spice. He leaned in and took a deep breath.

  Charlie jerked away. “What are you doing?”

  “Smelling you.” Jet grinned. “You smell good enough to eat.”

  Her jaw dropped, her eyes widening. For a second she remained perfectly still, then she scooted further down the couch and out of reach. Not that he’d been brave enough—or smart enough—to go for a grope when she was in reach.

  “I’m not one of your groupies,” she hissed.

  Jet reared back. Anger rolled through him. “I don’t have groupies and you fucking know it.”

  She glanced away, fiddled with the digital recorder in her hands. “You’re right. I do know that. I’m sorry.”

  He wanted to reach over and wrap his arms around her. Tell her it was okay. Not to worry. Jet wasn’t used to the strange mix of emotions twisting him up. The urge to throttle followed by the need to comfort competing with his need to possess. Confusion and frustration in equal measure.

  No wonder he couldn’t think straight when she was around.

  Silence enveloped them, broken only by the creak of leather as Charlie squirmed in her seat.

  She seemed nervous—jittery—totally unlike her usual confident self and Jet didn’t like it. He might want her ruffled, but not like this.

  Pointing to the recorder, he said, “Ready when you are.”

  Taking a deep breath that raised her chest and those perfect tits, Charlie activated the recorder and placed it on the couch between them. As a barrier it was ineffective, but he wasn’t about to call her on it or move the conversation in that direction.

  Not when he was fighting to keep his hands off her.

  “Tell me about the moment you knew you wanted to be a singer.”

  Jet smiled. “I was three.”

  “Three?”

  “Yeah. I wandered off at the local shopping centre and found my way into a music store.”

  “So you were the bad boy even then?” Charlie’s mouth tipped up on one end and Jet shoved back the compulsion to lean in and kiss her.

  He chuckled. “If you ask my mother, I’m sure she’d say yes.”

  “You don’t agree?”

  “How much trouble can a three-year-o
ld get into?”

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me?”

  “Bill found me. The old guy who owned the shop,” he explained as memories of his childhood mentor flooded his mind. “He taught me to play guitar. Encouraged me to sing.”

  “And you were obviously good at both.”

  “I’m not the greatest guitarist, but I can hold my own. It’s the voice that got me where I am.”

  “Without any real training from what I understand.”

  “No. I’m not one for classrooms.”

  “I’ve heard that.” She shifted, lifted the leg closest to him and, bending it, set it on the couch, her body turned towards him. “You dropped out of school and began playing gigs in places you weren’t even legally allowed in.”

  He was distracted by the way her position exposed the heart of her—even though her flesh was covered in thick denim, it still sent a shudder of lust through him. Clearing his throat, Jet dragged his gaze up to her face. “You do what you have to.”

  “Do you?”

  “Don’t you?”

  Charlie shook her head. “No. Not everyone does.”

  There was a story there, but now wasn’t the time to probe, no matter how much he wanted to know everything about her. She was supposed to be asking the questions. Shrugging he said, “Performing was a natural fit for me.”

  “You wear the outfit well.”

  He raised one eyebrow. “Outfit?”

  “Rock star.”

  “Ah.” Jet hated that title. It made him itch. He’d never been comfortable with labels.

  “And that gives you some interesting perks.” She licked her lips. Fidgeted in her seat. “Tell me, why is it you don’t partake in the groupies that flock to every concert like some of your band mates? Even the roadies and security team seem more than happy to accept that particular side benefit.”

  “Is that the angle you’re taking with this exposé?” Was she deliberately trying to piss him off? First mentioning his groupies, now this?

  “No. But you can’t deny it’s a huge part of the deal.”