With the Band (With the Band #1) Read online

  BOOKS BY NATASHA PRESTON

  THE SILENCE SERIES

  Silence

  Broken Silence

  Players, Bumps, and Cocktail Sausages

  Silent Night

  THE CHANCE SERIES

  Second Chance

  Our Chance

  STAND-ALONES

  The Cellar

  Save Me

  Awake

  With the Band

  Copyright © 2016 by Natasha Preston

  All rights reserved.

  Visit my website at www.natashapreston.com

  Cover Designer: Dalliance Designs

  Editor and Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

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

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  I couldn’t have finished this book without the constant help of a good friend, Hilda. Not only have you been there to encourage me, but you’ve also sent me so many gorgeous teasers, album covers, and book cover options. I don’t know how, but you always seemed to know just when I needed something visual to keep me going. Your enthusiasm for this book has gotten me through many late nights and a lot of doubt!

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  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  TEXAS

  MONDAY, MAY 4

  OXFORD, ENGLAND

  I roll over on my bed, stare up at the ceiling, and sigh down the phone. “If you fancy telling me how I’m going to get through this tour, Peyton, that’d be awesome.”

  “Um…”

  Best friend? Yes. Good at advice? No.

  Probably doesn’t help that I’ve not told her absolutely everything yet. It’s hard to say aloud what’s happened between me and Kitt because then I’ll have to talk about what happened after.

  And I won’t talk about what happened after.

  “Yeah, Pey, I’m going to need more than that.”

  “You’ll be fine on tour. You love it on tour. No one is better suited for looking after six grown-ass man-children than you.”

  Ugh, ass.

  She’s getting all Americanised, out there in LA.

  “Ha, they do act worse than kids.”

  “But Kitt”—even the sound of his name has me breaking out in a sweat—“is the object of your desire, and being around him makes you feel like your vagina is going to explode,” she says.

  “I…what?” I make a face even though she can’t see. “Your vagina feels like it’s going to explode when you’re around a guy you like?”

  I can practically see her twirling her finger around her blonde hair. “Well, not literally but yeah. In a good way.”

  A good exploding vagina. Of course.

  “I think I’m scared of you right now, freak.”

  “You love me long time, slut. Now, stop stressing about Kitt, and enjoy seeing the world. Again.”

  I roll my eyes. Everyone seems to have that misconception. Touring isn’t all that glamorous. I don’t get to sightsee everywhere and try local cuisine. “I’ll see lots of roads and lots of arenas and eat lots of room service.”

  “You get some time off, right?”

  “A couple of days here and there and then a bit of time between the bus tour and flying out to places like America and Australia. We have to meet up in the States.”

  “Duh. I’m trying to swing a couple shows closer to home, too. Not sure yet, but I’ll do my best.”

  I sit up. “Oh my God, do that! It’s been so long, Pey. I hate that you’re off being a superstar actress in LA. And, you know, also super proud,” I add with lots of enthusiasm.

  I am proud of her, but I miss her like crazy. She’s the only girl I like, and I’m not exaggerating.

  “I will do my best. I miss you and the boys.”

  “Yeah, want to spend the night perving on my band with me?”

  My band? Yes. They are mine. If it wasn’t for me, they would have missed at least five appearances. Unorganised lazy shits. I love them to death.

  Especially Kitt Daniels—AKA the kiss ninja. One minute, he’s there with his lips all over mine, pinning me against the wall, and the next…poof, gone.

  “I don’t know how you haven’t slept with all of them yet. Honestly, they might well be whores, but”—she wolf-whistles—“they’re all gorgeous.”

  I’m one hundred percent biased, but every member of Filthy Sound really is beautiful, all in completely different ways. It’s like they were sent from the rock gods to break the heart of every woman—from Kitt Daniels, who is heavily tattooed and has dark hair, to Jack Cooper, who’s blond and lightly tattooed, to Milo Sterling, whose hair is the colour of black ink and whose skin is pristine and untouched.

  “Right,” I reply.

  But there’s only one of them I want to sleep with—and, well, marry—and he doesn’t feel the same.

  “Is your panic over?” she asks, having about as much time for girlie drama as I do.

  “Yeah, I’ll figure something out. I’m getting to be a pro at pretending I feel nothing for him.”

  “Aw, Texy.”

  “Ugh, shut up. We’re not doing the teenage boy-drama shit, I swear. Tell me something awesome you’ve done recently.”

  “I went on a date with Chad Galley.”

  My jaw falls onto my chest. “I hate you so much.”

  She laughs. “Don’t be jealous. He plays some incredible characters on-screen, but trust me, he’s very good at acting.”

  “No! He’s boring?” This isn’t the first time that Peyton Best has ripped apart my celebrity fantasies. I hate it when you meet someone, and they’re nothing like how you want them to be.

  “Watching-paint-dry boring. I could’ve fallen asleep. Do you know what chassis goes in different cars?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, I do.”

  “Ouch.”

  Nothing is worse than being trapped on a date with someone who’s making you fall asleep. I’m not brave enough to walk out. It feels rude. Plus, “Ignorant Texas Knight” would be all over the Internet by the time I got home, and there’s enough untrue rubbish in the world about me as it is.

  “Yep. Mum thinks I should give him another chance because it could’ve been nerves, but I’m not going to waste anyone’s time.”

/>   “How is your mum?”

  Peyton and her mum have been on their own since Peyton was a baby. Her dad took off to find himself shortly after she’d turned one. So far, he’s not found anything. Well, at least that she knows of because he’s never had any contact with her since. Her mum, Fern, thought maybe he’d be in touch now that Peyton is a superstar, living in LA, but they’ve heard nothing.

  Growing up, we kind of shared each other’s parents. It’s probably why we’re so close. Then, the bitch moved across the world for a part in an ongoing TV series surrounding an American high school, kind of One Tree Hill- and 90210-style, and I miss her every day.

  “She’s good. She hates America still.”

  I laugh and shake my head. Fern doesn’t hate America. She hates that they don’t all drive on the other side for her or add tax to the prices on show.

  “So, tell me something awesome you’ve done recently, Tex,” she says.

  “I ate a whole share bag of M and M’s and Maltesers in one sitting while watching three seasons of The Big Bang Theory.”

  Peyton is silent for a long time, but just as I’m about to ask if she’s still there, she clears her throat. “Time well spent.”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  Deep down, I know I need to do more epic shit, but what this epic shit will be I have no idea. My dad’s a rock star, my mother’s a supermodel, and my best friend is a TV star. I have a lot to live up to, and I don’t know where to start.

  For now, I’m content to tour for the summer, and then I’ll figure something out.

  Swinging my legs over the bed, I get up and throw my favourite T-shirt in my case. I should’ve started packing earlier, but that never changes. I’ve got no time for that. And we do have a little time before we leave.

  “Anyway, Pey, I need to go. Call me as soon as you can fit me into your busy schedule,” I tease.

  “Mmhmm, I’ll try to pencil you in next week.”

  “I hate you.”

  “Love you, too, whore,” she sings before hanging up.

  Chucking my phone down on my bed, I finish packing the last—I hope—of my things.

  I zip up the case as Dad walks into the room. He rubs the dark stubble covering his chin.

  I look like Dad—minus the facial hair, of course. We have the same shades of medium-dark brunette hair and hazel eyes. Mine have more green in them though, and that can be attributed to my mother. She’s all blonde hair, dazzling green eyes, and miles of legs.

  He leans against the doorframe, like he’s in a Calvin Klein ad, which he was asked to do a few years ago. They wanted rock star Mark Knight on their campaign. Thank God he turned it down because I would’ve had to get myself emancipated. No one wants to see their dad in underwear on billboards and on TV.

  And if they do, they need to reevaluate their life.

  “Want to see if you can meet up with your mum before we leave?” he asks.

  I raise my eyebrow. My mother, the woman who pushed me out and then left me with Dad thirty-six hours later. She didn’t even try for two days.

  I give him a sarcastic look. “No.”

  “Texas, you won’t see her for a couple of months.”

  “Then, nothing will change,” I reply as I shrug.

  I generally see her once every three months. Being on tour won’t change my relationship with her at all. Christ, moving to the North Pole wouldn’t do that.

  Mother Dearest is a supermodel, household name, and ex–reality TV star. I’m so glad I refused to be on Living with the Star when she had the film crew at her house for almost a year.

  To be fair, she’s damn good at what she does. Jennifer does high-fashion and runway shit, wearing stupidly expensive clothes that look as uncomfortable as they are impractical. I’m a shorts-and-T-shirt kind of girl most of the time.

  I don’t think there’s a glossy magazine she’s not been on the front of. All of that success is great, but she sucks at being a mum. My dad, nanny, his band, and his entourage have brought me up, and they’ve done a pretty awesome job.

  Dad sighs. He knows how I feel about Jennifer, and while he doesn’t disagree that she’s not even fit to look after a plant—which she kills regularly—he doesn’t like to say anything bad about her to me. Growing up, he made so many excuses for her. I knew the real reason she was rarely there. She didn’t want to be my mum, plain and simple.

  “Okay, just give her a call then.” He throws the house phone down on my bed, like I don’t have a mobile, and walks out.

  I know I should call her and let her know I’m about to go on tour with Dad, but she already knows. She still follows Dad’s career, like she did back when she was an eighteen-year-old groupie—only now, she Googles him.

  Mum was one of Dad’s first groupies when his band was just starting to get big. She followed him everywhere, and I’m proof that he screwed her—just once though. In my head, it is only ever once. About nine months after their romantic evening in a grimy bathroom in Texas, I was born. Yes, of course, my dad—being left alone with a baby and having no clue that baby name books existed—named me after the state I had been conceived in. Lovely. It could have been worse, I suppose.

  I scroll down the list on the home phone until I come to Jennifer Star—not her real surname but she needed to match the ego.

  In my mobile, she’s down as The Oven.

  “Texas, darling,” she says, drawing out darling, like she’s an extra in Absolutely Fabulous.

  Lord, help me.

  “Hello, Mother.”

  “Oh, don’t call me Mother. You make me sound old.”

  You are thirty-eight. I want to say it, but it’s not worth the hassle. Plus, thirty-eight isn’t old.

  “Sorry, mum.”

  I honestly would rather call her Jennifer to her face, but after the long, drawn-out lecture Dad gave, I caved. Jennifer hadn’t been ready to be a parent, and apparently, I shouldn’t be too hard on her. Sorry, not my fault. She’d opened her legs, so she should have dealt with what came out between them.

  Dad seems to think I’d have a better relationship with her if I told her how her abandonment made me feel. I don’t want to have that conversation with her. We don’t discuss feelings with each other. She’s never even told me she loves me, so why should I try?

  “How are you, sweetheart? Daddy told me you’re learning to drive.” She sounds surprised, like she didn’t realise I’m older than eleven now.

  “Yep,” I reply.

  At nineteen, I’m two years behind passing my test, but you know, touring with rock stars totally takes precedence. And besides, we have drivers, so I can sit back and chill while being driven around.

  I’m not as princessy as that sounds. Honestly.

  “Has he bought you a car yet?”

  I turn my nose up. “No, he won’t even talk about it until I’ve passed my test.”

  “Oh, you leave that to me. I’ve just bought a nice little Mercedes CLK, and you’ll absolutely love it. How cute would it be to have matching cars?”

  Nope. Not cute at all.

  I want to tell her not to worry and that I’ll be happy with whatever Dad gets me—which, no doubt, will be a sensible, safe car—but I really like the sound of a CLK. Plus, Jennifer lives in Notting Hill, and we’re an hour away from her, so no one would see our matching cars.

  Jennifer likes the idea of having a daughter—now that I’m an adult—more than the reality of it. She wants the fun stuff, like getting made up together, going out, having our nails done, and buying me expensive things. Tough luck for her that I’m not girlie.

  Growing up, I just wanted a mum.

  “I don’t know if Dad would like that.”

  She has as much right to buy me whatever she wants as Dad does, but I would never encourage anything I knew he wouldn’t be cool with. He is the most important person in my life, and nothing will get in the way of that.

  “Leave it to me, Texas. Have I ever let you down before?” She makes it sound
like a joke.

  I blink in shock, my heart sinking. You heard that right, right? There is nothing I can reply that’s not all the time, so I glue my lips together. Dad taught me to shut up if you’re not going to say anything nice.

  “We’re going on tour soon.”

  “Yes. How exciting.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I believe it’s for Filthy Sound and your dad’s supporting, yes?”

  She knows that already. There’s no doubt in my mind that she Googled Enigma’s tours long before now. Crap band name, I know, but they were young and drunk at the time. At least, I hope they were.

  And I am one hundred percent sure, deep down, that she knows about my massive thing for Kitt—lead singer of Filthy Sound and my future husband.

  I haven’t seen him properly since that night, the one where we kissed. One earth-moving, life-affirming kiss that he hasn’t bloody mentioned since. I wanted him to propose the second we broke apart. He didn’t.

  Is that really too much to ask?

  Selfish bastard.

  I sigh. “Yeah.”

  “That Milo is into you,” she says.

  So, I was wrong. And so is she.

  Milo is into blondes, lots of them. Plus, as Enigma’s lead singer’s nephew, Milo is practically family.

  And I want Kitt.

  “No, he’s not, Mum.” I sense she’s about to say something, so I quickly add, “Anyway, Dad’s calling me. Gotta load the bus up. Bye.”

  I hear her say, “Bye,” right before I hang up.

  Speaking to her is exhausting.

  Dad passes by my door and looks back in. “How did it go?”

  “Fine. She’s the same.” Not changed in the nineteen years I’ve been alive. “You packed?”

  Frowning, he lazily shrugs one shoulder. “I think so.”

  “Plenty of condoms? We don’t want you knocking up another groupie now, do we?”

  He glares.

  Truth hurts, I guess. I’m far too old to have a little brother or sister now, and Dad’s just old.

  “One time, that happened, munchkin.”

  I smirk. “It only takes one time.”

  “Apparently so,” he mutters dryly. “We should hear about your grade soon. Gina will let us know.”

  Gina is—was—my personal tutor. She’s been with us since I was five. Because Dad is on the road a lot and not wanting me to be away from him, he hired a nanny and tutor to come along with us. Of course, she stopped the nanny bit a long time ago, but she is a bloody genius and the reason I finished my studies a year ahead.