Rock 'n' Stroller Read online

  Rock ’n’ Stroller

  Layla Valentine

  Holly Rayner

  Contents

  Rock ’n’ Stroller

  1. Kendra

  2. Kendra

  3. Johnny

  4. Johnny

  5. Kendra

  6. Johnny

  7. Kendra

  8. Kendra

  9. Kendra

  10. Johnny

  11. Kendra

  12. Johnny

  13. Kendra

  14. Kendra

  15. Johnny

  16. Johnny

  17. Johnny

  18. Johnny

  19. Kendra

  20. Kendra

  21. Kendra

  22. Kendra

  23. Kendra

  24. Johnny

  25. Kendra

  26. Kendra

  27. Johnny

  28. Kendra

  29. Johnny

  30. Kendra

  31. Johnny

  32. Kendra

  33. Kendra

  34. Kendra

  35. Kendra

  36. Kendra

  37. Kendra

  38. Johnny

  39. Kendra

  40. Kendra

  41. Johnny

  42. Johnny

  43. Kendra

  Epilogue

  A Baby, Quick!

  Introduction

  1. Heather

  Also by Layla Valentine

  Rock ’n’ Stroller

  Copyright 2019 by Layla Valentine and Holly Rayner

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author.

  All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.

  Chapter 1

  Kendra

  August

  The tickets were nosebleed, but that didn’t matter. For me, it was backstage or bust.

  “I still can’t believe you’re doing this,” came the voice of my best friend Blaire Walsh through the speakerphone.

  “You really can’t believe that I’m doing it?” I asked. “Of all people?”

  “Okay,” she said, quickly correcting herself. “I can most definitely believe that you’re doing it. So, let me rephrase—I can’t believe that anyone would be crazy enough to try something like this.”

  Dressed in nothing but a matching red bra and panties, I put my hands on my hips and stepped back from the bed where I’d laid out my outfit for tonight. I cocked my head and weighed the pros and cons.

  “You there?” asked Blaire.

  “I’m here,” I said. “Just trying to figure out what I’m wearing tonight.”

  “Well,” she said. “If getting into backstage is your plan, then I’d put on whatever showed off those boobs of yours.”

  “Good thinking,” I said. “But that’s not how this little caper’s going off.”

  “Oh really?” asked Blaire. “Not going to wink and smile at security?”

  “No way,” I said. “You saunter up to the staff and play it like that, and they’ll toss you into the groupie pen.”

  “Mmm,” said Blaire. “That doesn’t sound too bad to me.”

  “Blaire!” I shout out, a smile on my face. “You’re terrible.”

  “What?” she asked. “You’re going to all this trouble to see Memphisto in the flesh—the very, very gorgeous flesh, I might add—and you’re not even kind of into the idea of hooking up with the great Johnny Maxton himself?”

  I turned on my feet and laid my eyes on the picture open on my laptop across the room, guitar-heavy rock pouring out of the speakers and filling my room. The picture was of Memphisto, the rock band that was on everyone’s lips—not to mention in everyone’s ears.

  All of the guys were gorgeous, each one of them dressed in black and white, their skin painted with tattoos, come-hither expressions in their eyes. But Johnny…he was something else.

  I stepped over to the screen and got a better look, taking in his ice-blue eyes, his hard, sensual glare, his jet-black hair tied up into a small samurai ponytail. The sleeves of his white V-neck shirt were ripped off, putting his broad, taut shoulders and bulging biceps on full display. My heart skipped more than a few beats just looking at him. His eyes seemed to stare right through me, his gaze as hypnotic as his music.

  “Earth to Kendra,” came Blaire’s voice.

  I shook my head, snapping myself back into the moment.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Just got a lot on my mind.”

  “Sure,” said Blaire. “I’ll bet.”

  I could almost hear her devilish grin through the phone.

  “Anyway,” she said. “Tell me about this big plan of yours.”

  “It’s easy,” I said. “I put on a USD uniform—”

  “Wait, ‘USD’ as in ‘United Seattle Delivery’?”

  “Exactly like that,” I said.

  “Where’d you get one of their uniforms?”

  “Our regular delivery guy at the label did me a solid,” I said. “He found me a ‘lost’ uniform, and I slipped him a few review copies of some of our latest releases.”

  “Damn,” said Blaire. “Owning your own label sure has its perks.”

  “You bet it does.”

  “Okay,” said Blaire. “Then what? Assuming you manage to bluff your way back there, what’s the play? You moon at him like a star-struck fan before he gets security to take you out of there?”

  “I talk with him.”

  “You ‘talk with him’?” she asked. “About what? Favorites pizza toppings?”

  “No,” I said. “I put an idea in his head.”

  “And what sort of idea might that be, Miss Inception?”

  I stepped over to my laptop and clicked on the tab of a video interview with Johnny I had open.

  “Let me show this to you,” I said. “And you tell me what you think.”

  “Shoot.”

  “So, the interviewer asks, ‘what sort of new directions are you planning on going with Memphisto’s next album?’”

  “Sure.”

  “Now, check out what the reaction is.”

  I turned on the video setting for the phone, Blaire’s cute face appearing on the screen.

  “Oh, hey there,” she said.

  I smiled and gave a little wave before turning the phone to the screen.

  “Watch.”

  I hit play, which started right as the interviewer finished the question that I’d described.

  The band was all seated together, Johnny looking as gorgeous and brooding as ever.

  “We’re going in a massive, riff-heavy, bone-crunching direction for this next album,” said Marcus Thorne, the rhythm guitarist, his sun-blond hair draping down as he leaned forward to speak. “Something that’s made to get stadium crowds moving. Maybe some EDM influences—who knows?”

  “Sounds amazing,” said the interviewer. “I assume this new sound has been a collaboration between you and Johnny, just like the last few albums?”

  I hit pause right as the shot switched to a close-up of Johnny.

  “Damn, he’s hot,” said Blaire.

  “Pay attention,” I said through a smirk.

  “What? You expect me to ignore that?”

  “Do your best,” I said. “Because what he says next is the important part. Or I should say, what he doesn’t say next.”

  “O
kay,” said Blaire.

  I hit play.

  “Yeah,” said Johnny, speaking in his impossibly sexy, laid-back purr. “Though this one’s looking like it’s going to be Marcus’s baby in a lot of ways.”

  That was all he had to say. He looked away, the interviewer realizing that Johnny wasn’t going to be adding anything more.

  I hit pause again, then set the phone down propped-up where I wouldn’t have to mess with it.

  “You see that?” I asked. I snatched the pair of skin-tight, ripped black jeans off the bed and shimmied into them.

  “See what?” said Blaire. “Sounded like a pretty blah answer.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying,” I said, grabbing the T-shirt for one of my favorite nineties grunge bands, Bass Shift, and pulling it on over my head.

  “You’ve lost me.”

  “I’ve been following Johnny for years,” I said. “Watching his interviews and all that. He’s always super hyped-up about his music, eager to talk about all the ins and outs of the creative process. You can tell it’s what he loves more than anything.”

  “Sure,” said Blaire.

  “Now compare that to this interview. What did you notice?”

  “It was blah, like I said.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What,” said Blaire. “You’re thinking that means Johnny’s not all that excited about the work?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m thinking,” I said. “Compare that to Marcus, who’s all about it. Their new sound is totally different, too. I mean, it’s good—how could it not be with Memphisto—but it’s so big and over-the-top. Johnny used to always be about that stripped-down sound, and now it’s totally different.”

  “I’m listening. Let’s hear your thesis statement,” said Blaire with a smile.

  “My thinking is that for whatever reason, Johnny’s heart isn’t in it anymore. Maybe Marcus is really into this new sound and Johnny’s going along with it, or maybe, just maybe, their label’s pushing them in a direction he’s not crazy about.”

  “Uh-oh,” said Blaire. “I think I know where this is going.”

  “So,” I said. “I talk to Johnny, let him know who I am. Slip him my card. Maybe that gets him thinking about what he might do if he didn’t have a big, huge label looking over his shoulder while he wrote.”

  “Are you really thinking that you might convince him to come over to Avalon?”

  Avalon Records was my up-and-coming, but somewhat small-at-the-moment, record label. We specialized in local bands for the most part, but since I finally managed to get the label profitable over the last year, I’ve been racking my brain trying to come up with ways to take us to the next level.

  “That’s what I’m hoping.”

  “No offense, but what makes you think that a massive star like Johnny would be interested in leaving behind his label? They can offer him money, major perks, the newest gear…”

  “Sure,” I said. “And that’s a good point. But what we can offer him is something he’s clearly not getting under his current contract—complete and total creative control.”

  “Hmm,” said Blaire. “Like a solo guitar thing?”

  “Something like that,” I said. “Or whatever he wants to do. There’d be some legal maneuvering, but I think an artist like him might jump at the chance.”

  “Or call security,” Blaire said with a smile.

  “Or call security,” I said.

  “Sounds totally crazy, but if anyone could pull it off, it’s you,” she said.

  “I’ll take that as a vote of confidence,” I said with a grin.

  “As you should,” said Blaire. “Now, let’s see this disguise.”

  I pulled the USD uniform out of the closet, looking over the drab olive pants, shirt and cap. I stepped into them, the baggy clothes leaving room for the more appropriate outfit I had on underneath. Once it was all on, I stepped into a pair of black boots.

  “Ta-da!” I said, taking my place in front of the phone.

  Blaire’s eyebrows raised.

  “Wow,” she said. “Those uniforms sure don’t do any favors for a girl’s figure.”

  “I know,” I said, tugging at the baggy fabric. “But I’ve got on my normal stuff underneath.”

  “You know what?” said Blaire. “I think you can do it. If you can start a record label from the ground up, what can’t you do?”

  “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear,” I said.

  I grabbed my things and prepared to leave.

  “Now,” I told Blaire. “I’ve got a surprise meeting with Johnny Maxton. And no one’s going to get in my way.”

  Chapter 2

  Kendra

  The stadium was a zoo when I pulled up. The evening was well underway, and the parking lots were packed full of cars and concert-goers making their way to the long lines at the front doors.

  The moment I stepped out of my car, I could feel the energy in the air. There was nothing like the hour or two before a live show, and I was a total addict to the feeling—especially for a band like Memphisto.

  I grabbed the fake package off the passenger’s seat and took one last look at myself in the rearview mirror. Between the baggy uniform and the matching baseball cap, I looked like any other delivery person. My stomach tingled in anticipation.

  I was ready.

  The first step was getting through the main gates. I sidled my way through the masses of people, slowly but surely approaching the guards that flanked the doors. I’d been in enough situations like this to know that the key to getting into somewhere that you didn’t belong was to look like you were both in a hurry and mildly annoyed.

  To that end, I didn’t even make eye contact with the security crew as I approached them.

  “Hold up,” said one as I drew near.

  “Hey,” I said, making my voice sound a tinged frustrated that someone would stop me in the process of doing my pretend job. “Delivery for backstage.”

  I grabbed the lanyard dangling off my neck and held it up as though it were the keys to the kingdom.

  The guards exchanged a brief look before the one who stopped me waved me in. That was the other secret to getting into wherever you wanted—a lanyard. For some reason, having a picture of yourself draped over your chest screamed authority. That, or a big camera.

  I slipped past the guards, feeling very pleased with myself. Once I was inside, I took a moment to look over the scene.

  The place was packed. Hordes of men and women of all ages were there, ready to be rocked beyond compare. Memphisto’s cross-appeal over several different demographics had always struck me as interesting. Where some bands appealed only to teens, grown-ups, or men or women, everyone seemed to love Memphisto. I chalked it up to Johnny Maxton’s universal lyrics and impossibly catchy tunes.

  He was really something else. And I was going to get him one way or another.

  I had a mission, but that didn’t prevent me from wanting to sneak a peek at the stage. I moved with the crowd until I was at the entrance to the stadium floor. The opening band hadn’t started yet, so the stage was clear. Roadies milled about on stage, checking equipment and adjusting lighting.

  Behind them hung a massive banner for Memphisto’s logo—the name in Gothic lettering and a ferocious, stylized lion pictured mid-roar underneath. I’d seen enough Memphisto shows to know that their stage show was second-to-none. Though in my opinion, all I needed was Johnny, a microphone, and his guitar.

  The stage was the sort of place that I wanted the bands signed on with Avalon to play one day—if that’s what they wanted. Right now, selling out a modest-sized club or two was a feat in and of itself. And while I loved the intimacy of a smaller venue, I couldn’t help but fantasize about putting one of my bands on a stage like this, the seats packed with adoring fans.

  Someday.

  I turned away from the stage and focused myself on the task at hand. Getting through the main doors without a ticket was no small feat, but getting backst
age would be quite the thing. With the package tucked under my arm, I made my way from the main hall of the stadium to the doors leading to the back halls of the place.

  The din of the crowds grew quieter as I opened the door and slipped through. As soon as the door shut, the noise became a low hum, soft enough for me to hear myself think again. A dozen or so stagehands were in the hall with me, all of them moving with the same focused sense of purpose.

  I made my way down the hall, spotting the doors leading to backstage. These were guarded more securely, two hulking men in black T-shirts standing at both sides, their arms crossed over their massive chests, hard expressions on their faces.

  This was going to be the real test—do or die.

  I watched as a few of the stagehands approached them. For each one, the guards gave the individual wishing to get past a thorough questioning, looking over his or her ID and making sure they were where they were supposed to be.

  And, of course, very pretty girls in tight, revealing clothing were eager to get backstage. They’d walk up to the guards, bat their eyelashes, and make a show of putting their boobs on display. The guards would, with the same hard expressions on their faces, simply tell them to wait in some side room, probably for the band members themselves to come and pick out their favorites.

  I’d toyed with the groupie idea, but acting that way was so far out of my character that I figured I’d be spotted instantly as someone trying to sneak in for other reasons. Not that the idea of potentially being picked out by Johnny himself didn’t have its own appeal.

  When I was ready, I took one last deep breath, squared my shoulders, and headed up to the guards. Their steely eyes latched onto me as I approached, and I did my best not to flinch at their glare.

  “Who are you?” one asked, his voice booming and resonant.

  “USD delivery,” I said. “Got a package for backstage.”

  “ID,” the other guard demanded, his voice just as low as the first’s.

  I held up my lanyard, trying to look as natural and unbothered as possible. The first guard leaned in so close that I could smell his cheap aftershave and feel his hot breath on my face—smelled like he’d had something very garlicky for dinner. The ID wasn’t anything too fancy—just my picture swapped out onto an old one. I hoped it’d work.