Chapter 1
Caleb
“We’ll take three more.” Leaning forward slightly over the gleaming bar, I slapped some bills down on the glass counter and slid them over to the mildly starstruck-looking bartender on the other side.
The last traces of anonymity I’d been clinging to before our last album dropped had all but disappeared. The Imperial Inspection album—so named because my brother had been dubbed as the Emperor of Rock by the press because of our band’s vaguely Roman motif—was ripping up the charts, much to the joy of the other members of Destitute.
World-renowned rock band that we’ve become, I thought snidely. I would’ve played bars and clubs for the rest of eternity had it been up to me, keeping a more exclusive sound. But it wasn’t up to me, and the others were after the rock legend stratosphere. So that was where we were headed.
A much longer way down when we crash and burn. It wasn’t the greatest way of thinking of our newfound place among the music elite, but I was a realist at heart. Shit like this didn’t last forever.
The bartender still hadn’t made a move to get our shots, so I lifted my chin in the direction of the fully stocked shelves behind him, annoyed to have to prompt him into action.
“Tequila. Three. Please.”
Realizing that he’d been caught staring at us, he snapped his gaping jaw shut, nodded, and started lining up the shot glasses without another word. I ran a hand though my hair a few times, an irritated gesture not lost on my bandmate sitting on the stool next to me.
Matt, our bassist, wore an amused expression and shrugged. “Lighten up, man. Occupational hazard. You know that.”
Now that we were cruising right down the center of mainstream rock music, he was right. It was an occupational hazard, just not one that I was particularly fond of. I was fine being able to make enough money just to get by with our music. This whole “getting recognized and dealing with the press” thing was a fiasco I could’ve done without.
“He oughta know better, working in a place like this.” I grunted, gesturing around us at the VIP room of one of the hottest clubs in Los Angeles. The pumping music provided a thin veil of privacy for our conversation, but I honestly didn’t give a shit if the kid heard me.
A bunch of Hollywood starlets sat at the booth behind us, while an NFL player was practically devouring a popstar right there at the opposite side of the bar. The bartender wouldn’t last long if he kept gaping at the clientele.
I figured I’d done him a favor by jerking him out of his starstruck stupor. More than a few of my peers would’ve decked him for staring at them in here. Hell, if he didn’t get a fucking grip and get us our drinks, I was going to do the same thing.
“He’s probably new. Haven’t seen him around here before.” Nick glanced down at his watch. It was secured to his wrist with a thick, wide, black leather strap. I remembered getting a similar one as a promotional thing from some designer when the album dropped, but no way in fuck would I ever wear the thing.
Our rhythm guitarist didn’t look bothered by the size of his watch, or by the bartender’s lack of attention to our drinks. Nick was like that though. He was possibly the most laidback, easygoing guy in the industry. Almost too easygoing sometimes.
“That’s four shots now in less than an hour since we got here. You trying to get us drunk?” Nick winked and waggled his dark eyebrows at me.
I flipped him off just as the bartender slid our shots over. “Don’t need to get you drunk, Masters. Everyone knows that. Drunk or sober, you’re a man-whore.”
He slapped his hand over his heart in mock hurt, then reached for his glass and lifted it. “Maybe so, but I’m a lovable one. Even you have to admit it.”
Matt laughed and raised his glass to Nick’s, waiting for me to do the same. “You’re only lovable to us, Nick. Only to us.”
It was true. Nick loved women, and women loved Nick. Well, they loved him until he left in the morning—every time, without even one failure.
Then they called him a jerk, a bastard, a player, and those were the nice names they had for him after. But of course, he laughed it all off and went in pursuit of his next conquest like he didn’t have a care in the world.
We all knew better than to try to slow him down. He was enamored by the rock-star lifestyle and held the opinion that the women of the world deserved a piece of him. And that he deserved them, obviously.
With Jared, my brother and our lead singer, officially off the market, Nick was stepping up his game and leaving a trail of broken hearts in his wake.
I lifted my glass to my bandmates. “I don’t have to admit a thing.”
Both of the other guys laughed, and then our tiny glasses crashed together, and we slammed down our shots. The alcohol didn’t burn as much on its way down as it did the first few shots, which was perfect. Exactly what I was after.
Nick grinned after double tapping his empty glass on the counter. “If it’s not to get me drunk, why are we trying to consume all the tequila in the state in record time?”
“You complaining?” I raised an eyebrow.
He smirked and shook his head. “Never. Just a question, bro. Just seems to me you’re hitting it harder than you did on your birthday the other day, and that was a fucking rager of a party.”
“Maybe that’s the point,” I told him, raising my tumbler of scotch to my lips. “Maybe I want to get even more wasted than I did on my birthday.”
“Should’ve brought the more fun Larsen along for the ride then.” Matt grinned, the light catching on the green flecks in his eyes as he rolled them. “Speaking of which, where is the Emperor tonight?”
I groaned. “Shut the fuck up with that Emperor shit. And where do you think he is?”
In a move that had caught us all more by surprise than if we’d been told that Santa Claus was real after all, Jared had fallen in love and then gotten engaged a little while ago.
En-fucking-gaged. To be married. The thought itself sounded insane, even in my head. And yet somehow, it was also reality. My brother, self-proclaimed playboy and bachelor for life, is getting married. By choice.
I nearly laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of the situation, but Matt beat me to it. He laughed good naturedly, giving his suggestion about where my dear brother might be. “Planting flowers around his white picket fence?”
“Choosing a puppy?” Nick added, not bothering to hide the amusement in his voice.
“Conceiving one of his two and a half children?” Matt asked.
Chugging the rest of my scotch in one gulp, I nodded. “Ding. Ding. To all of the above. No doubt he’s engaging in some terrible act of domestic bliss.”
“We lost a good one in him,” Nick lamented, ordering another round. “A toast to our fallen comrade, and all the other pussy-whipped fuckers in the world.”
We raised the shots and slammed them. “Never thought Jared would be one of those,” I said.
“That makes two of us,” Matt agreed thoughtfully. “Dude’s a goner, though. But let’s face it, the man looks fucking ecstatic to be leaving bachelorhood behind.”
“Crazy motherfucker,” Nick mumbled, shaking his head. “Can’t believe he’s hanging up his boots so early in the game.”