The Bad Boys of Summer Anthology(189)

“Friends?” She scoffs. “Trust me, friends was the last thing on Joss’s mind tonight.”

“How do you know?” I ask. “Are you suddenly the Joss Jamison expert or something?”

“I’ve known Joss since we were fourteen years old, Mel. He’s been Walsh’s best friend that entire time. I’ve learned a thing or two about him, and I know him a hell of a lot better than you do.”

“Yeah? And what did he ever do to you?”

She stops cold, her eyes widen, her skin flushes. I’m scared by the way she looks right now.

“Nothing. He didn’t do anything to me,” she says quietly. “You’re right. You’re an adult, and I’m sorry I’ve treated you like you weren’t. Be friends with Joss at your own risk. You’ve been warned. That’s all I can do.”

With that, she marches off to the bedroom she shares with Walsh and I’m left wondering why it feels like my sister’s world is nowhere near as stable as I thought.



We spend the next few days getting the hang of being on tour. It’s busy, and there are a thousand little details to worry about. Before we can have the first concert, there are promotions to do, so we spend a few days at various events getting the crew and guys warmed up for the big show. L.A. is hot and smoggy, and I find that dealing with a whole band and crew of people while trying to document everything is a lot harder than it might seem at first. The combination of multiple cameras along with four uncooperative and attention-challenged rock stars is enough to drive anyone to drink.

We’re setting up for a CD signing and giveaway at the Hard Rock Café our third afternoon in L.A. when I finally reach my limit.

“Goddammit!” I holler as the back leg on one of my tripods collapses for the tenth time in as many minutes. “Stupid piece of shit!” I take the whole thing, pick it up, and then throw it down on the floor in my pique.

“Whoa there,” someone says from behind me.

I turn and find Joss laughing softly as he strides my direction, his long, denim-clad legs eating up the fifteen feet between us in about three steps.

“Do you need some help?” he asks, smiling.

I growl at him—yes, I literally growl. “Not unless you can scare this tripod into standing up the way it’s supposed to.”

He reaches down, picks up the tripod, and tightens the clamp on the extension of the leg. Then he turns and looks around, finally calling to one of the roadies who’s putting together a backdrop and display tables nearby.

“Duct tape, man.” He holds out his hand and the roadie grins and hands it over. Joss wraps a big swath of silver duct tape around the leg of my tripod, pulling it tight before he gives the roll back to the roadie, who ambles on back to his job.

After pushing down on the tripod with a little force and seeing that it holds, Joss looks at me and smiles. “All fixed. Got anything else for me?”

I can feel my face heat. It was so simple, yet the solution never even occurred to me.

As if he can read my mind, Joss says, “Don’t worry about it. It’s encoded into the male DNA. Duct tape is the answer to most problems generally and any mechanical issue always. Women never think of it.” He grins, and I can’t help but laugh. Who knew Mr. Tortured Rock Star was funny?

“Sounds like I need to have a roll of the stuff myself.”

“Probably wouldn’t hurt, but you also need a new tripod. Order one from wherever you get those things and tell Tammy to pay for it with the company credit card. Also, don’t skimp. These things are going to get a hell of a workout this summer. Get the sturdiest one they’ve got. Is there any other equipment you need?”

“I don’t think so. We bought the cameras special before we left Portland, and I’ve got plenty of lights and extra cables.”

“Good. So what else can I do to help you?” he asks as he stuffs his hands in the front pockets of his jeans.

I’m a little surprised that the lead singer of the band is offering to help me set up my equipment. “Oh, you must have all kinds of things to do. I’ll manage this stuff.”

“Actually,” —he leans forward and stage-whispers near my ear, his warm breath causing tingles to dance down my spine— “I have absolutely nothing to do and it’s embarrassing.”

I look at him with one eyebrow raised. He winks. Shit he’s hot.

“Seriously,” he continues. “My whole responsibility is to remember to be charming when the media people show up, sign some shit for fans, and go on my merry way. I wouldn’t admit this to many people, but some days, my job is ridiculously easy.”

I laugh. “Well, if you really need a task, you can help me unwind this cable that we need to connect to those lights over there. The lighting in here is so poor I won’t be able to get clear shots of you guys signing if I don’t have some extra bulbs set up.”

He flexes his biceps—I nearly swoon—and says, “I’m your man. Bring it on, baby.”

I laugh but point to the huge spool of cable that weighs nearly as much as I do.

He lifts it easily but asks, “Do you seriously carry this stuff around all by yourself? You’re kind of little.”

“I am not little!” I huff out indignantly. “I’m 5’6” and well, I won’t admit to the rest, but it’s not all that small.” I grimace.

Joss is unwinding the cable, laying it in an ever-expanding circle on the floor, careful to make sure it doesn’t overlap or tangle in any way so we can pull it where we need when he’s done. “Well, given that I’ve got six inches and probably seventy pounds on you, in my book, you’re little. It’s all perspective, Mel.”

I see a heat in his eyes that tells me he finds me to be a nice kind of little and I can’t help but feel all warm and squishy inside at the thought of how much bigger—and harder—he is than me. I shake off the inappropriate thoughts and lean down to my camera bag to pick up a flash attachment that goes on the digital model I’ll keep with me for more candid shots.

“So.” I stand up and cock my hip. “I guess I’m supposed to play the part of the little, weak woman who can’t handle a bit of manual labor so that you can be the big, muscle-bound stud who saves my day?” I sass him.

He shakes his head and chuckles. “Mel, I have been called many things in my life, but a ‘muscle-bound stud’ has never, and I mean never, made the list. Now,”—he drops the last of the cable on the floor in the very center of the giant circle he’s created—“I’m flattered that you see me that way.” He steps closer, and I feel my breath hitch. “And I’d be happy to offer my muscles, or my stud services, whenever you might need them.” He winks again. Dear lord, I think I might have just orgasmed a little bit.

I smack him on the shoulder. “Oh. My. God!” I cry out. He laughs. Hard.

We spend the next thirty minutes getting the lights all connected and the cables taped down. Joss procures several rolls of duct tape that I get to keep for my very own. He presents them to me like he’s giving me the keys to the castle, with a bow and a flourish. He’s silly, and I wonder what all those girls who pay to see the dark prince of rock and roll would think of this funny, quirky, flirty guy? I also can’t help but wonder which one is the real Joss Jamison. Or have I even met the real one yet?





Chapter Nine

Joss



I’ve spent most of my afternoon either watching Mel, talking to Mel, flirting with Mel, or wishing for Mel. It’s like some sort of fucking disease that I can’t cure. Once again, my control is slipping, and that never leads to anything good. I’ve always been the kind of guy who likes to be in charge. Maybe it’s the only child in me, but I don’t like to feel that I’m not determining my own fate.

With the band, that’s meant I’m the go-to guy. Early on I made sure to thoroughly understand all the aspects of what we were doing—the business end, the legal end, the marketing end, all of it. None of the other guys has ever had much interest in anything beyond playing the music and the fringe benefits that come with fame. I, on the other hand, will be damned if I’m going to turn my back on a bunch of lawyers and agents and leave my future in their hands.

My personal life’s a little different. I’ve always been in charge there too, but the result has been a series of casual relationships, each never lasting more than a few weeks. It’s not what I planned, but I’ve never trusted anyone I’ve been with enough to give them control over my heart.

Walsh though tossed his heart to the first gorgeous woman who offered to take it and he’s been deliriously happy ever since. Or at least that’s how it always appeared. I realize now that something in his life wasn’t perfect or he would never have ended up at the wrong end of a deep bottle, fighting for survival.

But he and Tammy were my ideal. I watched them for years, their devotion to one another, their trust, their friendship. It’s always been what I wished for but didn’t know how to obtain and still maintain control.

The night Tammy and I slept together, I lost that control. My mother had died six months earlier, and Walsh had just gone into rehab. Tammy and I drove together to the rehab facility for the first family therapy session. It was painful. Walsh was like a different guy—withdrawn, bitter, agitated. While the therapist told us later that it was perfectly normal, it was hard as hell to watch. When we drove home, Tammy cried most of the way. I didn’t have any plans or designs, but I automatically took her to my condo instead of her house. She was so upset; I operated on instinct.