So I Married a Rockstar

Marina Maddix

Sign up for my mailing list to snap up new releases, enter fun contests and so much more! All contact info will remain completely private – no spam! Sign up at list.marinamaddix.com .

ABOUT THIS BOOK

I hate rockstars. All of them. But there's one in particular...

Drax is cocky, brash and one pitchfork away from being the devil himself. But he's also the sexiest jerkwad I've ever met. Worse than that, he seems to crave my curves just as much as I long for his rock-hard, tattoo-covered body.

What am I supposed to do, just ignore those mesmerizing ice-blue eyes? Or how all my bits and pieces tighten whenever he's near? Or the way his voice gets all husky when he calls me Lola?

Yeah, right.

That's how I ended up on a tour bus headed for Vegas as the band's new manager. But it's only temporary, much like what's going on between Drax and me. I just wish he'd got the memo. Oh sure, he's putting on a good show that this is more than a fling, but I know he's just like every other bad boy, heavy metal musician.

Want to know the worst part? I don't like heavy metal or bad boys.

Maybe I'll lie to myself a little longer.

Rock That Body

"Yo, bitch! When's Drax gonna get here?"

I do my best to be polite to the scraggly fanboy glaring at me from the front of the line. He's trying to look threatening, with his kohl-lined eyes and badly dyed, shaggy black hair, but he just makes me want to giggle. And I might, if I wasn't so pissed off already.

"Any time now, sir."

Sir! Right.

The fifty or so fans that have already lined up this morning to meet the lead singer of Roadkill are all about the same caliber. A cross between goths and Satan worshippers. Almost all guys, and the handful of girls look exactly like the boys but with boobs. Half of them have piercings studding their faces, and the other half are posers with stick-ons and those ridiculous 'tattoo' arm stockings.

But all of them are customers, so no matter how nasty they are, I have to be polite. Unless they touch me. Then all bets are off.

The truth of the matter is that I have no idea when Drax -- real name: Draymond Maxwell -- is going to show. He's already nearly a half-hour late for set-up, and the signing is supposed to start in five minutes. My dads will be devastated if this little pre-concert signing gets canceled.

Yeah, you read that right. I said 'dads'. Fact is, my fathers were the best parents a girl growing up in San Francisco could ever have. They played tea party with me, taught me all about my girly works before I got too much wacky info from other kids at school, and when it was time to play dress-up, Papi happily let me raid his walk-in closet that was filled to bursting with gorgeous gowns and wigs.

And right now, he and Dad are grinning and waving at me like maniacs from inside Raines Records, so proud that their little 'Lola' was trusted with a promotion all of her own. As if. My boss didn't have any other choice but to send me.

Dammit, where is Drax?

Have I ever mentioned how much I hate rockstars? So arrogant, so inconsiderate. It's like they thrive on it. Having helped my dads with dozens of fan signings at the store when I was growing up, I've seen this exact scenario play out over and over again. So why am I surprised?

"Sweetie, relax," Dad says, poking his head out of the door. Inside, I hear the door chime playing an instrumental version of The Weather Girls classic It's Raining Men. So very perfect for a store named Raines Records, especially one nestled in the middle of the Castro district of the city.

"Dad, do you know me at all?"

Telling me to relax is like telling a nervous chihuahua to relax. Ain't gonna happen.

"It's only ten. That's like sunrise for a musician. He'll show. They always do, you know that. Here, have a pull."

He holds out a vaporizer that I know is packed with the finest weed available in California, which is saying a lot. Even though vapes don't put out smoke, there's no hiding what's inside. The skunky scent wraps around me like a depressing cloak.

"Dad, you know I don't do that stuff."

I don't need to tell him why; he knows better than anyone.

"I know, Lauren. I just thought it would help take the edge off. Besides, you're nothing like your mom, you know. I mean, you look exactly like her, but you don't have the same addictive personality. I'm sure it would be fine."

He pushes the vape at me again but I just hold up a hand.

"It's not a theory I'm willing to test, Dad. I'll just have to suffer through my anxiety like a normal person."

Hurt flashes across his face for a split second but then he smiles and tucks a dark brown curl  behind my ear, like when I was seven.

"Lauren, honey, sometimes I think you try a little too hard to be normal. Weird is good."

"Fuckin' A," chimes in the dufus at the front of the line. "Hey, gramps, can I have a tug off that?"

We both ignore him. But I don't have the time or energy for this lecture again. Don't get me wrong, I love Dad with all my heart but he can be a real pain sometimes. He and Papi are so...free. They wear 'weird' like a badge of honor. It drives me nuts.

Now Papi wedges his shaved head out the door next to Dad's. Normally, I can't help grinning when they do that. They're like salt and pepper shakers -- an old white guy with a wild mop of grey hair and a downright beautiful Puerto Rican with dark skin, impossibly high cheekbones and almost-black eyes. I honestly wish I was a blood relative because Papi never seems to age. Dad, on the other hand... Well, let's just say that I keep to a very strict skin regimen to counteract my genetics.

Now if I could only stick to a strict exercise regimen and give up the maple bars, but alas...

"Lola-mami, come inside," Papi urges. "Da wind es muy frio."

He's right, it's cold. Just another typical summer day in San Francisco. Inuits would get chilled by the fog rolling in from the ocean and the gale-strength winds that blew it in. But my anger keeps me nice and toasty, thank you very much.

A cable car filled with gawking tourists trundles by and Papi waves at them like they're long-lost relatives. Dad leans over and gives him a kiss on the cheek, and suddenly cameras flash like crazy trying to capture the gay guys kissing on the street. No doubt the pics will be flying all over social media in about thirty seconds. I just roll my eyes. It doesn't matter if they're straight or gay, parents delight in tormenting their kids.