Rock Me Slower (Licks of Leather #3) - Jenna Jacob Page 0,1

microscope. Long seconds later, he glanced at my fellow band members’ somber expressions.

“No. Why would I be kidding? Phoenix is the hottest new artist in the industry. Combining your established fan base with this up-and-coming star is going to make the fans lose their minds and your concerts sell out in seconds. Is there a problem with that…with her?”

“We’ll defer your question to Ozzy,” Burk volunteered.

I shot the prick a glare.

“You got a problem with Phoenix, Oz?”

A problem? No. Try a million and one.

My once comfortable cotton tee and suit jacket suddenly felt six sizes too small. So did my skin. The limo seemed like a coffin. I wanted to put a fist through the heavily tinted window and escape so I could breathe again.

“Her name’s Mia… Mia Harris,” I bit out.

Quinn arched his brows. “I’m well aware of that. Why are you on a first-name basis with her? You two aren’t involved, flying under the paparazzi’s radar, are you?”

Not anymore.

“No.”

Without another word, I tossed back my glass of bubbly, draining it in one long gulp. Beside me, Ross lifted the half-empty magnum wedged between his knees and refilled it with a concerned stare.

“Look, you don’t have to like her. Hell, you don’t even have to work with her,” Quinn explained. “All you need to do is exactly what you’ve been doing…play your music and feed your fans. But if there’s an issue with Phoenix, speak up now. I’m sending out a press release Monday morning, naming her your opening act.”

“There’s no issue,” I assured as the limo rolled forward, only to stop again.

Adding an opening act wasn’t the issue. Sharing a cramped tour bus with Mia for six endless months was. A big one. It was an episode of the Twilight Zone in the making.

Face lined with suspicion; Quinn nodded. “Good.”

“How the hell did you manage to sign Phoenix?” Darren asked. “I thought she was under contract with Gerry Huber.”

“Well, suck my womb broom and call me a two-timing monkey whore. Check this shit out,” Syd cried, holding up his cell phone.

Squinting, I tried to see what was on the screen, but he was too far away.

“Like we can read that from here, dickless?” Ross drawled.

“What’s it say?” Burk asked from the other side of me.

“Put that away.” Quinn scowled. “You know better than to buy into any webloid’s bullshit. I’ve talked to Phoenix about the rumors and she assures me—”

“What rumors?” I demanded.

Since none of us in the band were industry climbers or attention whores, we’d skipped most of the pre-event parties. They were dull and rife with frivolous gossip that was gobbled up faster than the Michelin star meals served. Whatever rumors surrounded Mia, they likely held a modicum of truth. Still, if they’d been horrific, I knew Quinn would never have signed her.

“You’ll have to ask her yourself. I don’t share my clients’ personal information, even the unbelievable shit you clowns have pulled over the years.” Quinn smirked.

Ask her? Ha. Not my monkey, and definitely not my circus.

“What shit? We’re your perfect clients,” Syd preened.

Ignoring the bark of collective laughter and the ensuing banter, I tapped the screen on my phone as the limo inched forward again. My finger was poised on the Celebrity Access website—the tackiest tabloid of all—when the driver announced it was time for us to take the carpet. With an inward curse, I pocketed the device.

“Remember, smile and wave, boys…smile and wave,” Quinn reminded.

We knew the drill. This wasn’t our first red-carpet rodeo. Walk, stop, pose, smile, and always give the illusion that you’re thrilled to be there. Whatever.

“And for fuck’s sake, when you beat Slash Devils for Best Rock Performance, try not to point and laugh at them this time.” Quinn chuckled.

Honestly, I gave zero fucks about anything but keeping my shit wired tight.

As the limo door opened, anxiety slammed up my spine. Hanging back, I closed my eyes and imagined I was back home, lounging by the infinity pool, drinking a cold brew, and basking in the sunshine. The six-acre estate nestled along the majestic Camelback Mountain in Scottsdale, Arizona, was my oasis of sanity. Savoring my happy place a couple of seconds longer, I dragged in a deep breath, then followed Burk, Darren, Ross, and Syd from the limo.

I took the strobes from flashbulbs, shrieks of adoring fans, and cameras clicking off photos like machinegun fire in stride. The paparazzi yelled out our names, in hopes of capturing a money shot to sell to the highest bidder, while reporters