EPIC (Book 1 of the Soundcrush series)

Chapter 7: Rock Stars Make You Sweat

Kat

Riley completely disregards my request not to go to any trouble. By the time I get out of a long shower and put on a robe, he's back with four Target shopping bags.

"Sorry, only place open," he says apologetically. "Thank god I sent Tamara—she's the band's stylist— out in time—could have been worse." He walks right in and proceeds to hang three days' worth of clothes in the closet. He snips tags off yoga pants and tank tops and a pair of baby-doll pajamas and two bathing suits. He stacks shoe boxes on the dresser.

"Riley, why so much stuff? I told you—"

"I know what you told me, Miss Ballard. But my boss told me to make sure you had what you needed, in case you stay the weekend. They are playing the Benz tomorrow night, you know. The Fox was much too small of a venue for their fan-base here. The band just wanted to play there...hometown fantasy."

I nodded. I did know they had a second show.

He hands me a bag of lingerie, and bustles past me into the bathroom, dumping enough makeup and beauty products to fuel a cheerleading squad. I pull out a hot pink lacy bra from the bag.

"How in the hell do you know my bra size, Riley?"

"I don't, exactly. There should be a couple of sizes in the bag, but one does develop an eye for things." He looks frankly at my chest and then meets my eyes again and shrugs. "This ain't my first rodeo," he deadpans in an American accent.

"So you do this all the time for Trace." Of course he does.

Riley laughs. "That's not what I meant at all. I just meant, when you date in LA—and I do— you get exposed to a variety of...uhm...sizes."

"But you do handle this for Trace, right? Deal with all the girls at all the shows, clubs, in all the cities...back in LA, too, probably," I wave my hand.

His lips tighten, and he continues to snips tags.

"Sorry, I know you work for him. This is just weird, for me. I've known Trace my whole life. Being here like this...I don't know what this is." I gesture to the closet, filling up ridiculously fast.

He sighs. "To be honest, I'm not sure Trace knows, either. I will tell you, this isn't his...style."

"This is exactly his style. The bad boy caretaker thing? Very Trace. I'm sure the girls eat it up."

He gives me a strange look. "Well, I concede the point about the caretaker thing. There is that side of him, sure. But he doesn't roll that out to randoms.. If Trace brings a girl to the hotel after a show, she's usually pretty clear on what to expect in the early hours: breakfast and a limo ride home. No numbers exchanged."

"So he tells his groupies straight up he just wants sex from them? You think that makes him a good guy?"

He shrugs. "Makes him more honest than most in this industry. Sorry, can I just say...there's maybe not as many as you are thinking. And not too many women have seen the caretaker side, either. His mother, Mac, and..." he trails off.

"His girlfriend?" I say with a wry smile. "He mentioned one."

Riley snorted. "He was teasing you. He does not have a girlfriend, on that I can assure you. Look, Miss Ballard, I've spoken out of turn, here, only because Trace is a little frazzled and I don't think he's representing himself well this evening. But I like my job, and I keep it by being effecient, loyal and discreet. So...we should...change the subject."

I nod. I'm not sure I believe Riley about there not being a girl every night, but does it really matter? Obviously Trace has a life. It's not his fault I haven't been living mine to the fullest. Riley is now tearing open a phone charger package and plugging my phone in.