Feel the noise m m conte.., p.1
Feel The Noise: M/M Contemporary Rockstar Romance, page 1
FEEL THE NOISE
M/M CONTEMPORARY ROCKSTAR ROMANCE
THE ROAD TO ROCKTOBERFEST 2022
ARIA GRACE
SURRENDERED PRESS
Surrendered Press
Feel The Noise
Copyright © 2022 by Aria Grace
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
CONTENTS
1. Larson
2. Reed
3. Larson
4. Reed
5. Larson
6. Reed
7. Larson
8. Reed
9. Larson
10. Reed
11. Larson
12. Reed
13. Larson
14. Reed
15. Larson
16. Reed
Epilogue
Also by Aria Grace
1
LARSON
“Sir, please step to the side and wait right here.”
I have to hold in a sigh as the TSA inspector motions for me to move out of the way of the people walking through the X-ray machine behind me. “Is there a problem?”
“Just wait right here, sir. I just need to confirm that you don’t have any weapons on you.”
As if. “No, my pockets are empty.” I have on a pair of chinos and a polo shirt, just about the most boring outfit a person could wear. But after watching a few of those drug trafficking shows on the Travel Channel, I should have known better.
Drug mules are now mostly little old ladies or nerds like myself.
The man waves some kind of scanning wand in front of me, wielding it like an X-ray dustbuster of some kind. “If you can just spread your legs and hold your arms out at your sides.”
“Sure thing.” He’s just doing his job. He probably has to deal with shitty people all day long. I don’t want to be one of them, so I suck in a deep breath and count to ten, trying not to let my face look as annoyed as I feel.
After a somewhat inappropriate pat down and near-probing, I’m allowed to grab my carry-on and shoes off the conveyor belt and head toward my gate.
For the thousandth time in twenty-four hours, I curse my idiot brother for putting me in this situation. As usual, Pitch is fucking up his life and expects me to bail him out. And as usual, I’m the bigger idiot who is running to his rescue.
A part of me knows he’ll never stop relying on me if I always fix shit for him, but a bigger part of me likes being relied on. And this is something only I can help with.
Most twins aren’t as identical as Pitch and I are. If we have the same clothes on and our hair looks similar, even our parents have trouble telling us apart. That was fun when we were twelve. But as grown-ass men, I didn’t ever expect to get the call from my brother asking me to pretend to be him.
In public.
On stage in front of thousands of people.
But I guess I was giving him too much credit.
When my rockstar brother texted two days ago and asked me to be him at the biggest music festival of his career, I thought he was joking.
Like, legit out of his mind on some serious psychedelics. Sadly, he wasn’t.
Pitch spent the past week in Vegas, partying like the next few days weren’t the most important of his entire career, and now, as anyone could have predicted, he’s fucked up his voice and has laryngitis. According to his doctor, he won’t be able to speak above a whisper for at least a few weeks, and there’s no way he can perform for at least a month, maybe longer.
This means he can’t lead his band during Rocktoberfest, a huge music festival in the middle of the desert. A music festival that officially starts tomorrow. And because his band is already pissed at him for all the other times he’s messed up significant opportunities for them, he can’t tell them the truth.
Enter me.
The gullible brother who can be talked into anything because my own life is so damn boring that I need to live vicariously through my brother now and then.
Usually, that means watching his band play and pretending I have his kind of talent.
I never, in my wildest nightmares, imagined I’d end up on stage in front of a crowd of tens of thousands of people…singing. Pitch is the attention whore. I’m the guy in the background, not a frontman. And yet, I’m about to get on a plane and be the lead vocals for one of the hottest up-and-coming rock bands in the country.
A sheen of sweat erupts on my brow and temples as the oxygen seems to ease out of the busy airport terminal. Trying to maintain as much composure as possible, I slowly count to ten and suck in a deep breath as I walk toward my gate.
I will not have a panic attack in the middle of the airport.
Not only will it cause a mortifying amount of embarrassment for me, but it would also ruin this crazy little plan that Pitch and I have cooked up for me to sneak into the festival, pretend to be him, and sneak out without anyone realizing he wasn’t actually there.
Right as I find an open seat near the waiting area for my gate, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Of course, it’s said idiot brother.
Lars, bro. You there yet?
No, I’m at the airport. I’ll be boarding my plane in about an hour.
An hour? Why so early? If you wait >5 mins b4 boarding, you’re wasting time.
I roll my eyes, amazed that we share 100% of our DNA. How many flights have you missed?
Not enough to make it worth being an hour early.
Whatever. I’ll text you when I get there. Your clothes better be waiting there for me. It’s bad enough I’ll have to buy ripped jeans and a long-sleeved shirt to hide my tattoo-free arms before I drive to the festival. I couldn’t be mistaken for Pitch before leaving town, and I can’t be mistaken for myself once I get to the festival.
Oh, what a web we weave…
Yeah. Show luggage arrived w/crew. They keep asking my ETA. What should I say?
That you fucked up again. My flight arrives just after two. From the airport, it’s almost three hours maybe. So tell them by five thirty, just to be safe.
530? Practice @ 6. They’ll freak.
Well, you should’ve thought about that when you were partying all week. I can’t make the plane or the rental car go any faster. I’ll get there as soon as I can. And the less time I have to hang out with people who know Pitch, the better chance I have of not getting caught in my little charade.
Fine. Just hurry.
Yeah. I put my phone in my pocket because I didn’t think he’d say anything else, but then it buzzed again.
And thanks, Lars. I know you don’t wanna do this, but I appreciate you having my back. As always.
Don’t thank me yet. There’s still a high probability I’m gonna fuck this up for you. In my mind, that probability is about 99%, but he insisted we at least try. Whatever happens now is on him.
Nah, you’re a better vocalist than me. Just wear the arm brace so you don’t have to play, and you’ll be fine.
Instinctively, I glance down at my carry-on, reminding myself that the soft arm brace I bought is safely tucked away in there. As lead guitarist, Pitch always puts on quite a show. There’s no way I can play like him. Not only because I’m rusty, but I’ve never been as good on the guitar as my brother. The only way I can pull this weekend off is by faking an injury to make sure I don’t have to get anywhere near a guitar.
2
REED
I’m not looking forward to this personal protection detail out in the desert.
Usually, when I get assigned a private security detail, they’re in an air-conditioned casino or carrying bags for Beverly Hills debutantes. But this one isn’t gonna be either cushy or chill. Literally.
I’m gonna be babysitting a wild rocker in the middle of a music festival for the next several days.
From what I understand, I’m basically being hired to make sure an out-of-control rockstar doesn’t blow his band’s shot at a big contract with a major production studio. Glass Bay Studio invited Steel Sac to the festival as an audition of sorts. And, as part of the option to sign, they insisted on retaining me to keep Pitch Monroe in line.
It’s not my favorite way to spend a long weekend, but it pays well, and I could use some fresh air and sunshine. But now that I’m out here on the highway, I’m starting to get excited about the job. The road is full of muscle cars, lifted trucks, and tour buses heading to the festival site.
It’s hard not to get caught up in the excitement of the festival.
Over the past twenty-four hours, I’ve done a good amount of research on this Pitch guy, and I’m gonna have my hands full with him. Just a few days ago, he was pictured with a harem of women hanging off him in a Vegas casino. The last Insta post I saw showed him loading out of a limo at a prominent strip club. Individually, those things are all fine. No harm done. But as someone who’s known to partake in more than a few recreational drugs and enough alcohol to leave him blackout drunk on a regular basis, he’s at risk of being influenced in a negative way this weekend.
But I’ve dealt with worse.
If all I have to do is literally keep his nose clean and make sure he doesn’t do anything to screw up the band’s performance, we should be okay. I’m not sure if he knows I
When I finally approach the gate, I follow the signs for staff parking and drive my SUV along the outer fence until I am directed inside. The location for the Steel Sac crew set-up is clearly marked on the map on the crew app, so I slowly weave my way through row after row of tents, buses, and RVs until I find the rig I’m looking for.
Just as I’m getting out of my car, a white sedan pulls in behind me. I glance over my shoulder and then do a double take when I realize it’s Pitch Monroe.
But he doesn’t look anything like he does in his pictures. Not only is his hair shorter than it was a few days ago, but he looks so…healthy.
It always amazes me how some B-12 and oxygen shots will keep celebrities looking young because there are no signs of all the partying I know he’s done recently. His bright blue eyes and sun-kissed skin almost glow.
When he opens the trunk to pull out his bag, he realizes I’m still staring at him. “Hi. How’s it going?”
“Pitch, right? Hi, I’m Reed Marshall. Glass Bay Studio hired me to be your personal security for the festival.”
“Wha—” His jaw drops, and he just stands there, staring at me like I’m speaking a different language.
“I guess they haven’t told you.” I take a step toward him so we’re not shouting across the parking lot. “But they do this kind of thing all the time.”
He clears his throat and shakes his head, still looking confused. “Um, no. This is the first I’m hearing about having a bodyguard.”
“It’s no big deal, really.” Granted, no one else in his band has one, but I’m hoping he’ll just go with the flow and he won’t cause a scene. “I’m just here to make sure your adoring fans don’t get too crazy.” And that you don’t get too crazy with your adoring fans.
He chuckles lightly as he slams the trunk closed. “I don’t think that’s gonna be necessary.”
“Probably not.” Definitely will be, unless he’s too partied out from the past week. “So, I get a paid vacation, and you get someone to bring you water when you need it. Win/win.”
He smirks but then seems to catch himself and he schools his expression. “Whatever.”
Okay, that seems slightly more in line with my expectations of Pitch Monroe. “Need help with your bags?”
“No, thanks. I’m traveling light.” He pulls his phone charger out of the front console and then locks up the car. “Where to?”
“Isn’t that your bus over there?” I point to the rig to the right of an open shade tent.
He shrugs. “I guess. They all look alike.”
As a car guy, I don’t think any of them look even remotely alike, but I could see how a non-car guy wouldn’t notice the details. “Yeah, I think that’s it.”
Pitch just stands there for a second before finally taking the lead and walking to the bus. When he reaches the door, he hesitates. After a glance in my direction, he knocks once and then pulls open the fiberglass door and storms inside. “Hey, bitches. Daddy Pitch is home.”
Rolling my eyes, I brace myself for the days to come. Then I step inside the bus and close the narrow door behind me.
“The Pitch-ster is here.” The guys all mumble some sort of greeting to Pitch, and he high-fives or half-hugs them as he makes his way through the common space to where the bunks are.
There’s only one open bed, so he throws his bag onto it and turns back to the group. “What time is practice?”
The drummer, Slade Ryan, glances at me then turns back to Pitch. “So, I guess he’s the babysitter we were warned about?”
“You were warned? Must be nice,” Pitch mutters to himself, but I hear him.
Slade laughs. “If you were here yesterday, you would have gotten the memo. But it looks like his influence is already working. You’ve never asked about practice times before. Usually, we’re dragging you out on stage, ten minutes late.”
Pitch glances at me and then softly chuckles after relaxing his shoulders. “Yeah, I guess.”
Slade turns back to me and gives me a once-over. “I’m Slade. Welcome to Steel Sac.”
I wave somewhat awkwardly. “Hey, guys. I’m Reed. I’m mostly here to keep the fans in line. I’ll try to stay in the background and out of your way unless you need me.”
The second guitarist stands up and offers me his hand. “Hey, Reed. I’m Alex, but these guys usually call me Whip. Good to meet you.”
“Hi, Alex…or, uh, Whip. Good to meet you too.”
Rocco also introduces himself to me. The keyboardist is almost as hot as Pitch, but not quite. None of these guys are gay, so it’ll be easy for me to keep things professional. But even I can admit there’s something sexy about a guy in a band.
I read all about them from the band bios provided by Glass Bay, and they seem like cool guys in person. So far, it seems like a good gig.
Rocco opens up the fridge and pulls out a beer. “Reed, you want one?”
I shake my head once. “No, thanks. I’m on the clock.”
He glances at Pitch then back at me. “Is Pitch allowed to have one?”
All the guys laugh, and I can see Pitch’s cheeks pink up. Again, that doesn’t seem like something that would embarrass a guy like Pitch, but maybe he’s more sensitive than I’m giving him credit for.
Instead of answering, I look at my watch. “Didn’t I see a text about practice starting in twenty minutes. Do you usually drink before you perform?”
They all laugh again, much louder this time, but Slade seems to be the voice of reason. “Yeah, you’re right. We need to take this seriously, guys. We can celebrate after practice.”
Grateful when they change the subject, I hop onto the driver seat and send a text to Erin, the assistant back at the office. I’m in the bus with Pitch. They have practice soon and then we’ll see how the night goes. Where’s my tent?
Erin texts back with a map and photos of the fanciest glamping tent I’ve ever seen. There’s a full-size bed, a refrigerator, and a TV set up inside. You’re in 303. Everything you need should be set up, but let me know if you need anything else. Have fun.
I’m not sure fun is the right word to describe the next few days. But so far, it’s at least uneventful. Yeah, it’s going to be a blast.
Erin texts back with a laughing emoji. I know you’re being sarcastic, but it’ll be great. Try to enjoy yourself. I know it’s been a while, but I’m sure you’ll remember how.
Ouch. Not that she’s wrong. I haven’t been to a concert in years, so being paid to attend dozens of them isn’t such a bad gig. I glance over at Pitch and am surprised to see him scrolling through his phone in the little sleeping compartment.
Maybe he won’t be much trouble after all.
3
LARSON
A fucking bodyguard.
I keep stealing glances at the hot muscleman who was apparently hired to keep my brother in line. I should’ve known his reputation would ruin this little charade for me. Fortunately, these guys are all pretty self-centered, and having a stranger in charge of keeping “Pitch” in line means they don’t have to pay too much attention to me.
Which is good because every word I say sounds forced and awkward.
Pitch and I are very different people. Since we were kids, I was the studious rule-follower, and he was the rebellious class clown. He’ll do anything for a story, while I usually sit quietly in the background, ready to call for an ambulance.
Unfortunately, this time I have to be in the spotlight.
And I don’t think any of the guys have noticed the brace on my arm yet, which means I have to break it to them. Just before we leave for the rehearsal, I clear my throat to get everyone’s attention. “Hey, guys. I forgot to mention that I busted my arm up yesterday. I can’t play tonight or probably at all.”
