Seaside Pictures Series Book 4

highlight_author

Rachel Van Dyken

highlight_reads

20,8K

highlight_chapters

highlight_author

Rachel Van Dyken

highlight_reads

20,8K

highlight_chapters

Celebrities Comedy Contemporary Mothers Rockstars

Chapter 1

Andrew

The music hadn’t died a natural death.

Sometimes, I wondered if my own bad choices had killed it.

So, when my bandmate looked at me a second time and asked if I was losing my shit, I simply shrugged, put on my sunglasses, and leaned back against the wall.

We had five tracks to compose.

Five tracks to record.

I was supposed to write at least three of them.

I had written the word “the.”

For no other reason than it was the only word I could think of that rhymed with huh.

Not that we needed a huh anywhere in the damn lyrics.

It’s just the only word that kept rolling around in my head. Huh, look at that; everyone’s happy but you. Huh, imagine that; our album went double platinum. Huh, amazing, you have everything you could have possibly ever wanted.

Except for your best friend fully back in your life the way he used to be.

All the bridges in LA you burned during your addiction.

And the only girl capable of putting a smile on your face.

The same pregnant girl who was currently sitting in Will Sutherland’s lap, my ex-best friend, co-lead singer of Adrenaline, and pain in my ass.

He was worse than a parent.

Like the father figure I’d never wanted.

Who wouldn’t leave me the hell alone.

He hovered as if he’d had something to do with bringing me into the world, even though nine months back, he’d threatened to take me out of it.

I stared them down.

And quickly looked away when Angelica Greene’s tear-filled eyes met mine.

I was the reason she was still sad.

Me.

Because every time she spoke to me, my throat felt like it was closing up; and every time he kissed her, I wondered if things would be different if I could change the past.

My mistakes?

Roads I’d traveled?

Taken because of my misplaced jealousy.

“Drew!” Ty threw a drumstick at my face. “Seriously, we only have a few weeks down here before the second leg of the tour. You gotta have something in that notebook of yours.”

I clutched the leather cover tighter against my chest. “That’s for me, not the band.”

“Selfish ass,” Trevor mumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose as he stood and stretched then went back into the sound booth as if that was going to fix the problem. “You’ve been acting like you have a stick up your ass all day, and to think I was starting to wonder if you were the funny one again.”

“I’ve always been the funny one,” I shot back with a bit of a grin and then rolled my eyes. “I’m just exhausted. It’s not like we’re young spring chickens anymore.”

“Hey, speak for yourself.” Trevor grinned.

“You literally have ketchup on your shirt and another substance I’ve been spending the last hour trying to decipher.” I pointed out, as the rest of the guys fell into laughter. “And you…” I jabbed a finger at Ty. “…get to have twins in three months, so I’d stop laughing.”

That shut him up, and then he got this dopey grin on his face that had me so jealous I had to look away, which meant my gaze was back to Will and Angelica and the way he gently touched her stomach.

“Yeah…” Will leaned forward. “…I’ll admit my back hurts more than it feels better.”

“That’s the sex, moron,” I snapped and then realized I’d just made a sex joke about them and wanted to crawl under the piano and saw off the legs.

Will’s mouth quirked. “I think it’s that and trying to keep everyone in line while still singing next to shithead.” He smirked. “That’s you, by the way.”

“Hey, guys…” Trevor ran a hand through his hair. “…I’m around fighting kids twenty-four-seven because the joys of parenthood don’t stop when you bring them on tour with your wife, so let’s just break for today, all right?”

Braden, one of my protégés, chose that minute to walk in, an extra pep in his step since getting engaged to his former life coach. He pulled a popsicle from his mouth and then jerked his chin over at me. “Who died?”

“That’s it.” I shot to my feet. “I need a break.”

“We were on a break!” Ty felt the need to yell.

Everyone fell into laughter, me included.

“All right, Braden, you can work on some of your own tracks since I’ve got the studio, and, Drew, if you could kindly find someone to help pull those drumsticks out of your ass, that would be super-duper.”

“Roger.” I winked. “Hopefully, she’ll be hot.”

“Stay away from my mom, dick face!” Braden yelled.

We all stared, and then I laughed. I’d been pining after her ever since our first meeting, but because I didn’t want my protégé murdering me, I did the less fun and more creepy thing and ogled her when she wasn’t looking. I also tried to engage in multiple conversations that ended up with her staring at me like she couldn’t quite figure out why I was speaking. “You do realize she’s only three years older than me, right?”

“He likes them old!” Ty held up his hand for a high five; meanwhile, Braden looked as if he was ready to mow me over with the tour bus.

Trevor whispered under his breath, “I think that’s your cue to leave, bro.”

“Yup!” I grabbed my guitar, shoved it in my case, and let the door slam behind me as I made my way into the dreary, salty ocean air.

It was raining.

Had been raining for ten days straight.

Seaside, Oregon, everyone!

I used to think this was a place people went to die or retire, or maybe just really embrace their depression. Instead, it turned out to be one of my favorite places in the world, to the point where I was spending more time on the off-season with my bandmates here than I was back in LA.

They were my family, after all. Even if we were still semi-dysfunctional, and it helped that another band of friends, AD2, lived here along with Zane Andrews, a guy I toured with and was also—surprise, fucking surprise—married with one kid and another on the way.

I’d lived the high life so long, literally, that the minute I got my shit together and jumped off the train, it was like I’d missed everything that was important about your twenties—all the lessons. Instead, I’d made all the mistakes, and now that I was thirty-six, kind of felt like I had nothing to show for it except a shit ton of money, fame, and scars from my past.

So many scars. So much baggage I was sick from it.

With a sigh, I put in my earbuds, and the tracks I’d laid earlier buzzed in my ears. I just needed the right lyrics. I made my way down the boardwalk, careful not to make eye contact.

When you made eye contact, people recognized you.

And wanted pictures.

And pictures meant smiling.

And talking.

And doing all the other useless things humans did when they were impressed with what other humans did for a living and wanted to use it to brag on Instagram.

I was so over it today. I didn’t have the mental or physical energy to put on the mask and grin at someone’s expensive phone.

And feeling lonely, if I was being completely honest. All my bandmates had someone, and it wasn’t like I hadn’t tried. Hell, I’d even taken out Penelope, Ty’s wife, before she gave me a firm no, put me in the friend zone, then promised to bother me forever until I found a wife who could actually put up with me—her words.

Maybe that was why I was complete shit at writing love songs.

The only love I’d ever experienced happened to me when I was in my teens then died a slow, painful death as I numbed myself with drugs, and now that I was in my thirties and touring again, while secretly trying to do a solo album, things just felt…

Stale.

That was the word.

Stale.

Like there was a path I was supposed to take, but nothing interested me enough to want to even take a step in any direction.

I dodged a group of girls as I made my way past the aquarium. Shrieks followed by whispers and then footsteps against the cement. I picked up my speed.

I was too slow.

A tap, tap, tap hit me in the back. “Are you Drew Amhurst?”

I hung my head. I wasn’t like the rest of the guys. I didn’t do fake smile well when I was stressed, and I’d never been so stressed in my entire life.

Slowly, I turned on my heel and stared at the brave girl who’d approached. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen, pitch-black hair pulled back into a sleek low ponytail, and she had giant sunglasses covering her eyes. Her skin was flawless, her lips full. Huh.

Damn it! That word!

She looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t put my finger on why. Finally, I relaxed the breath I’d been holding and responded, “Who’s asking?”

I smirked down at her then widened my smile as her breathing quickened. Most girls didn’t know where to look: my nose ring, earrings, lip ring, multiple tattoos decorating my arms and chest, or the blinding, albeit semi-fake, smile.

I always gave them time to figure it out.

“Me.” She pointed to herself and then fidgeted with her iPhone. It had a pink case with a bunny on it. God, I’d never felt so old. “You’re my favorite — well, and my mom’s, though she would never admit it to your face. I was just wondering if I could get a picture?”

Fuck. At thirty-six, I was almost extinct, wasn’t I? Her mom? The hell!

“Did you know that every picture someone takes of me steals another part of my soul?” I said. What? It slipped! She had a bunny case! Calm your tits.

She gaped and then went completely pale.

I reached out and touched her shoulder. “I’m kidding. Relax.” Her body was warm and stiff beneath my fingers. I tilted my head at her while she nodded quickly.

“Yeah, sorry. It’s just been a really hard day.”

Somehow, I doubted she knew the meaning of the word hard with her designer sunglasses, Louis Vuitton purse, and acrylic nails, but I took her for her word and held out my hand. My black fingernails looked out of place against my long-sleeved white pullover, which was a completely random thing for me to notice and a little irritating, yet again reminding me that I’d been off.

She pressed the sleek phone into my hand, and I wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close. Geez, she felt frail. I frowned a bit and then said, “Smile.”

I took three shots.

Her smile was hesitant. I didn’t pull away right away but felt like I should say something. I hated it when girls were insecure; hated, even more, when they starved themselves to death to try to obtain the perfect look that was nearly impossible to achieve.

“You should eat more,” I said softly. “You’ll waste away if you keep it up, beautiful.”

She stiffened even more. “You don’t know me.”

“And you don’t know me,” I fired back. “Not really. I just want you to know, from one stranger to another, you’re beautiful the way you are.”

Her other friend approached then, at least I thought it was one of her friends. She was taller, obviously older, with dark Prada sunglasses and curves that went on for days. “Thanks for doing that. It’s been a hard day with the diagnosis—”

“Mom!” the girl snapped. “Don’t.”

“Diagnosis?” I repeated, my stomach sinking. And how the hell was this person her mother? She looked about my age, maybe a year or two older. Maybe. I couldn’t even tell. She was too damn beautiful for words. Why the hell did she look so familiar anyway? I couldn’t see her eyes, but I was instantly attracted, instantly wanted more.

The girl turned away quickly. “Let’s go, Mom. Apparently, I need to eat more.”

I felt that mom-glare all the way to my toes as she jerked off her sunglasses and eyed me up and down.

I nearly choked on my tongue. “Mrs. Connors?”

Had I just lost my friggin’ mind? Was I imagining shit now? Or had I actually conjured the woman I was just thinking of? Like a crazy person, my gaze whipped to the girl and her friend and then back to Braden’s hot-as-hell mom, my mouth forming the word “what” but nothing coming out.

“She’s been in remission,” Braden’s mom said with a hollow voice. “But today the tests said it might have come back. They aren’t sure, but—”

“What can I do?” I interrupted.

“I think you’ve done enough for our family, don’t you?” She didn’t say it as an insult.

I’d basically taken her son under my wing and made him one of the most famous stars on the planet. I’d toured with him. I’d helped him after there’d been a tragic shooting at his concert. I had tried to be his rock while his mom stayed home to take care of his two younger sisters. For all my fascination with her, I’d seen her maybe five times in the few years I’d known him, but every other time, her hair had been lighter and shorter. Amazing what darker hair did and, paired with those eyes…

I was drowning.

I know she was thankful that she’d been able to stay back and not worry about work while her daughter sought treatment.

His money provided them with everything.

And yet, money didn’t fight cancer, did it?

“Shit.” I hung my head and turned toward Braden’s little sister. “I’m sorry. I wondered why you looked familiar. Amelia, right?”

The girl shrugged. “Yeah, but hey, don’t worry. There’s a reason you’re my favorite. You saved us from having to throw dear Mom here on the street to sell her body. I mean, can you imagine?

“Amelia!” Mrs. Connors’ face flushed bright red. “I would never— I mean…” She looked ready to pull out her own dark luscious brown hair. “Low blood sugar. We really should get going…”

“Hey, wait.” I grabbed Mrs. Connors’ arm. “Give me your number.”

Amelia gaped between us, jaw dropped. “Mom! He’s like super famous. Stop stalling! Use your words—”

“I have words,” her mom snapped. “I’m just— I don’t know if that’s the best idea with— We have to go.” She turned on her heel and nearly sprinted in the other direction, apparently almost forgetting about Amelia, who stayed back with a smirk on her face.

“I know how this works.” I crossed my arms at the sixteen-year-old. “I give you something. You give me your mom’s number. What will it take?”

She didn’t even hesitate. “Two backstage passes and a shout-out on your Instagram.”

“Steep.” I nodded and then held out my hand. “Deal, now give me her number.”

She let out a shriek while her mom finally realized that she’d stayed back to talk to me.

Amelia fired off the number, and I typed it into my phone with a grin.

“How old are you anyway?” Amelia just had to ask.

“Old as hell, just like your mom,” I said in a chipper voice and then, “thirty-six.”

She beamed. “Mom’s thirty-nine, though she tells everyone she’s still thirty-five.”

I glanced up at her mom, who was now holding her phone to her ear and glaring at us. “She looks like she’s in her twenties.”

“Believe me, I’m aware. Every single one of my guy friends is in love with her.”

“No doubt,” I whispered under my breath. “Is she dating anyone?”

“Oh, I’m sorry I can’t answer that question. You only asked for her number. Now you get to do the work, rockstar. It was lovely, by the way, doing business with you!”

“Hey, that’s extortion!” I pointed out.

She just shrugged and shoved her Pradas back up on her nose. “No, that’s good business.”

“Well, aren’t you terrifying.”

She did a mock curtsy. “Thank you.”

I shuddered. I’d dealt with enough teenage girls to last a lifetime. “Your mom’s waiting.”

“Bronte,” she corrected me. “Her name’s Bronte. Use it.”

I grinned. “Was that free?”

“Nothing in this world is free, Drew Amhurst. Nothing.” With a giggle, she was walking back toward her mom, and I was smiling like an idiot after them.

Drew Amhurst.

They always said my full name.

Always.

I wasn’t just Drew.

I was Drew Amhurst.

THE Drew Amhurst.

This was the first time in a long time I actually felt good about someone full-naming me. I waved at Amelia and watched in fascination as Bronte turned back and then jerked away.

I’d only ever interacted with her when she was at one of Braden’s concerts and hadn’t even been aware that they were in Seaside at the moment. Did they live here now? Or were they just visiting Braden? And how the hell was I supposed to dig for information from him when he’d rather bury my still-breathing body than give it to me?

I started walking slowly back toward the studio, my grin still in place. Maybe I wouldn’t leave for LA next week, after all.

Because something suddenly made me think that a little staycation was exactly what I needed.