Rock Hard: Bad Boy Bandmates & Babies Series by Jamie Knight (ebook reader 8 inch .TXT) 📗

executive. If so, how old was she? She looked young, maybe mid-20s, around my age. Then again, if Jonna was her younger sister, that didn’t seem likely.

“How old are you?” I asked.

“Old enough to know better, and you need to get dressed, stat.”

“I’m serious,” I pressed, hopping into my jeans.

“I’m 30,” she said, with a slight sigh. “Shocked?”

“A bit,” I answered honestly, raising my eyebrows.

She honestly only looked a year or two older than her sister, who was around my age, but in her work clothes and professional daytime demeanor, I could kind of see it. “Doesn’t bother me though,” I added.

She snorted in disbelief.

I took her in my arms and lifted her until we were eye to eye, and gave her a deep, passionate kiss to show her I wasn’t just blowing smoke up her ass.

“Thank you,” she whispered breathlessly when we parted.

“I mean it.”

“I know. Now put me down and finish getting dressed, okay?”

“Okay.”

I did as she asked, and soon enough we were out in the hall as she locked up. She seemed to be glancing around to see if anyone was coming. It wasn’t clear which had the potential for most embarrassment, having a one-night stand, having a one-night stand with someone five years her junior, or sleeping with a metal head.

Even though I wasn’t too obvious about it, keeping clean-shaven and my hair short, most people still knew. Except for Stephanie of course. She’d seen me in a suit, playing an acoustic set. Still, she probably guessed, since every other band at the wedding also on Seth’s label.

We stayed together, cuddling on the elevator, neither really seeming to want to really pull ourselves away from each other. At least until the bell dinged, then Stephanie was off. I kept pace, not hard with my long-legged stride, and we made it to the street about the same time. With another glance around, just to be sure, Stephanie got up onto her tiptoes and kissed me.

“Goodbye,” she whispered, before disappearing into the bustling crowd.

I didn’t have too long to ponder whether her goodbye had been forever or just for then. There were also places I had to be, like The Sanctuary to start recording our first official Suspicious Activity Records release. One for which we were contracted, with possibility for renewal at the end of the initial period.

Stig usually handled the legal stuff. He was the smartest of all of us, probably his way of compensating for being a bass player. Still, we all got a look at the contract, and agreed that Seth likely wasn’t trying to rip us off. The only downside was it would be at least four years before we could go home. I’d always thought it was a cliché, too long for the fjords, but there I was.

We had taken Stephanie’s car to get there, and she was long gone. I didn’t have a motor state-side, my truck still parked outside my house, in Bergen. It had been Stig’s bright idea to take the train into Norway and fly to the States. Never mind there away no way in Hell my drums were going to fit.

The clever bastard had though of that too, putting together a private fund over the last few local gigs to get me a new kit when we got there. It turned out to be a used kit with new heads but the same difference. One of the first things we did when we got the advance from Seth was to go hit the music store and get all new equipment. It didn’t even cut into the main amount, new equipment being one of the allowances he’d made for us.

Varg and Stig got the guitars and amps they’d always wanted but could never afford. I got as close as I could to the set I had at home. It was what I grew up with and was most used to. Most non-drummers really didn’t appreciate the importance of touch. Most players could get used to most sets, but it usually took some time. I sold the first American kit, figuring I only needed one per country.

The morning traffic picked up as I walked, hoping to get off the street before the real mayhem could start. Seattle had roughly twice the population of Bergen, and I was still getting used to the hustle and crowds.

My phone pinged with a notice. Taking a nearby bench, I paused to see what the telecom overlords had in store for me. The message was from Seth.

Seth: Hey, man, where did you get to last night?

Me: A friend’s house.

Seth: You have wheels?

Me; No, got a ride here.

Seth: Stranded, huh?

Me: A bit, yeah.

Seth: Give me the cross street, and I’ll pick you up.

As the fates would have it, I was near a cross street, so I could just put in the street signs as I saw them.

I’d heard that Seth used to drive a motorcycle, back before little Casey. It was hard to put a baby seat on a bike though, so he’d gone for a more appropriate family sedan, keeping the Ducati in the garage for special occasions. It was the sedan that pulled up to the curb in front of the bench, much to my delight. I’d developed a bit of a prejudice in favor of four-wheeled vehicles, it was a matter of balance.

“Stig and Varg are already there, Sven is setting things up.”

“Sorry about this.”

“Not at all, I know how it is.”

He probably did. Seth was older than any of us by at least 15 years and had a reputation as a sort of big brother figure to most of the bands the label released. If anyone understood what happened with Stephanie, he would. Except she was his sister-in-law, and that could get a