Prologue
New York Journal
September 7, 2014
If any of you were lucky enough to see Devil’s Lair last night in New York City, you no doubt walked away exhilarated and maybe even a touch turned on. They opened with an exciting, rock-the-house, sexy-as-hell show to kick off the rest of their tour. And last night they set the benchmark pretty high.
No doubt all you warm-blooded girls are well aware of the sexual magnetism their lead singer, Jack Lair, exudes, not to mention the rest of his band. But now all you warm-blooded guys can sit and drool over their new backup singer, Leila Marino, as well. She’s the perfect choice, if you ask me. She is sexy as hell, and the chemistry between her and Jack onstage is off the charts. If these two aren’t doing it… they should be. But then again, maybe that’s how Miss Marino cracked the code into this all-male rock band.
How she got in doesn’t matter once you hear her voice. This girl has the goods and brings it home. If she gets bored with her new bandmates, she can bring it to my home… I’m in love.
Along with Miss Marino, Jack Lair is at his all-time best, accompanied by drummer Hunter Amatto, guitarist Scott Malone, and bass guitarist Trey Taylor. I know, Trey who? Well, know him or not, Mr. Taylor amazed us all with his bass-playing skills. The man can make that instrument come to life, comparable to any legendary bass player in the industry.
All in all, Devil’s Lair brings back traditional rock with a new edge. As they begin touring from coast to coast, you need to find their itinerary and buy your ticket. While you’re at it, pick up their debut CD, Committed, a must-have in your collection. Whoever said “sex sells” said it with Devil’s Lair in mind.
Chapter 1
Trey
“Trey!” My eyes shifted to the dork whose pale skin had already turned a light shade of red from the sun, made worse by the coating of wet sand that covered most of his body. He couldn’t see me looking at him from behind my dark sunglasses. Still, Scott gripped his hips, knowing damn well my eyes were indeed on him. “Get your ass down here. If I have to endure this torture, so do you.”
I lifted my ice-cold nonalcoholic beer and tilted it toward him in salute. “Nope, I’m good.”
When he flipped me the bird, I couldn’t help but laugh. Internally, I thanked the red-headed fucker who played guitar in my band—laughing felt good.
Knowing he wasn’t going to get me to budge, he resumed his place in the chaos that ensued on the beach. If our fans could see them now—rock stars running around in modest swim trunks playing beach soccer with their brood of kids.
The fuck?
Who’d imagine that the famous Devil’s Lair enjoyed frolicking on the Jersey Shore like a bunch of camp counselors… except for me. I didn’t frolic, nor did I wear swim trunks. With a robotic tilt of my wrist, I swallowed another mouthful of the piss-tasting beer.
How the fuck did I get here?
There wasn’t a day that went by where I didn’t ask myself that. And by here, I meant as a recovering alcoholic / drug addict who’d almost flushed his career down the toilet, who’d found and lost love not once, but twice in his life, and who should have been dead on more than one occasion.
I tried to ignore all the ghosts and demons that continued to haunt me. Every day I became stronger, but having said that, I still was far from the person I worked hard at perfecting.
From the outside, I looked like the cocky rock star everyone expected me to be. Except for my therapist, no one knew that every day was a struggle. I wouldn’t go as far as saying it went on all day. I did have moments of forgetfulness. Surrounding myself with my friends helped, at least more than it had months ago.
Truth was, the loving all things in life man I used to be was gone. I wasn’t always that way, but most definitely had been the last ten or so years. And as hard as I tried, I simply couldn’t find my way back to being that happy ever again, nor could I imagine being so in my future. I was fine with it. Happiness just wasn’t in the cards for me. Contentment was more my thing these days. Status quo. Complaisance.
At age thirty-three, I’d already made enough money to live comfortably for the rest of my life. Mind you, I had also experienced enough heartbreak to supply a romance author a lifetime of material. Irony had fortune and misery creating a yin and yang on the imprint of my lifeline, equally existing on the pages of my book.
I blamed bad luck for being born the only son of Reverend Simon and Monica Barton. My childhood had been filled with abuse that I had endured at the hand of the fanatical preacher who’d spawned me. That horrific upbringing was one big fucking lie. One wouldn’t believe all the ways he’d tortured me, with Mom pretending to know none of it went on under her nose.
It took careful planning, but I’d plotted my revenge by turning over enough evidence of his illegal secrets to land him in jail… and then I ran away, leaving my mother with nothing but her guilt. That day, Trestan Barton died and Trey Taylor was born.
First stop was Los Angeles. During that time, I survived each day by playing my music. It was a very lonely existence, mainly because I trusted no one nor let anyone get remotely close to me. Eventually, I ended up in New York, and that was when my life completely changed after meeting the guys.
Devil’s Lair was on the climb to fame, and they grabbed my collar and dragged me along with them. Those years of making music, pillaging my way through groupies, and living on a tour bus were the best of my life. After what I’d been through, it was no different than giving a kid his first taste of sugar. Life was fucking fantastic.
But everyone knew that all good things came to an end.
If I’d learned anything, it was to live hour by hour. I couldn’t even dare to try to live day by day, because there’d been days of late when I’d woken feeling optimistic—only to crash at night, fighting for a reason to wake the next morning.
But today happened to be a good day… so far.
A bark of laughter brought my attention back to the beach. Every Memorial Day weekend, Jack Lair, our front man, hosted his band and their families for a weekend to destress and unplug. The unplugging was the idea of his wife, Leila, our backup singer. No phones allowed, no internet, no television, just good old-fashioned interacting.
God love that woman for all her loony attempts at trying to keep us grounded. Had to give her credit, though—it worked.
Gut instinct had me on the verge of declining the invite this year. But because of foreshadowing, a method my therapist, Dr. Rutherford, had me practicing, I’d seen a vivid glimpse of the chain reaction my refusal would create.
If pissed off, Leila Lair could be a force to reckon with. And she was a royal pain in the ass when it came to me. Where the rest of our band would often let me be me, ignoring my loner tendencies, Leila simply wouldn’t allow it… especially since my epic meltdown over a year ago.
I smiled when a soft hand landed on my shoulder. Speak of the devil.
“You good?” Leila asked as she settled on the chaise beside me. It was our little game, one that eased her constant worry that I’d repeat old patterns. One that reminded me she wasn’t going to allow me to.
I met her golden-brown eyes with a firm nod. “Yeah, I’m good, Little Lair.”