Lovely Madness: A Players Rockstar Romance (Players, Book 4) Read online

  Lovely Madness

  A Players Rockstar Romance (Players #4)

  Jaine Diamond

  Lovely Madness

  Jaine Diamond

  Copyright © 2020 Jaine Diamond

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, uploaded or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  The publisher and author acknowledge the trademark status and trademark ownership of all trademarks, service marks, and word marks mentioned in this book.

  Published by DreamWarp Publishing Ltd.

  Published in paperback, ebook and audiobook.

  First ebook edition: December 2020

  Ebook ASIN: B08B6F8LP6

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-989273-06-7

  V_1

  Cover design: DreamWarp Publishing Ltd.

  Jaine Diamond Online

  www.jainediamond.com

  Get VIP Access!

  Diamond Club

  Join the Diamond Club newsletter to get exclusive free bonus content, new release info, advance teasers and more.

  Jaine Diamond’s VIPs

  Join Jaine Diamond’s VIPs private Facebook readers group, where YOU are the rock star. Chat with other readers, get behind-the-scenes updates from Jaine and enjoy exclusive giveaways.

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Lovely Madness

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Books by Jaine Diamond

  Enjoy This Book?

  Acknowledgments

  Playlists

  About the Author

  Preview of Hot Mess

  For YOU, lovely reader—for coming along on this romantic rock ’n’ roll journey with me.

  THANK YOU.

  Author’s Note

  This book, Lovely Madness (Players #4), is the fourth novel in the Players series—a rockstar romance series about the members of the rock band “the Players,” and the women and men who love them.

  This is a spin-off series from the Dirty rockstar romance series (and the twelfth book in this world). Some characters and storylines in this book had their genesis in the Dirty series and the previous Players books, and if you want every detail of the crazy-romantic rock ’n’ roll adventure so far, you’ll want to read the Dirty series first.

  I write each book as a standalone, so that it can, well, stand on its own… But I do consider the books in the Dirty series and the Players series “interconnected standalones,” meaning you could pick and choose which ones you read, in any order, but you will definitely get the most out of the series, the individual books and the relationships within if you read the books consecutively.

  Reading order

  Dirty series:

  Dirty Like Me (Dirty #1)

  Dirty Like Us (Dirty #0.5) - Free

  Dirty Like Brody (Dirty #2)

  A Dirty Wedding Night (Dirty #2.5)

  Dirty Like Seth (Dirty #3)

  Dirty Like Dylan (Dirty #4)

  Dirty Like Jude (Dirty #5)

  Dirty Like Zane (Dirty #6)

  Players series:

  Hot Mess (Players #1)

  Filthy Beautiful (Players #2)

  Sweet Temptation (Players #3)

  Lovely Madness (Players #4)

  With love from beautiful Vancouver (the home of Dirty and the Players!),

  Jaine

  Lovely Madness

  Prologue

  Cary

  Indestructible

  “Dude, I’m so fucking wrecked.”

  My bassist and best friend, Gabe, pretty much fell over the second we walked into my hotel room. We’d just come back from lunch and he was so tired he was practically slurring. He sprawled into an armchair with a sigh and looked like he fell asleep right on the spot.

  I laughed.

  After the show last night, my band decided we needed to celebrate my birthday by staying up all night. Nothing unusual, but we’d really tied one on, birthday style.

  And then another one.

  And another.

  I’d insisted on buying Gabe a drink for every one he bought for me, though now I wondered if maybe I should’ve cut him off before the sun came up or something. I got to pass out for a while this morning, but it wasn’t so easy for Gabe.

  He’d been having trouble sleeping again.

  Sometimes I kinda forgot that my best friend was mortal. Since I was the one who always needed holding up, I forgot that even he could fall down.

  “Good thing we don’t have a gig tonight,” I mused, sipping my black coffee.

  He said nothing.

  I studied him, sprawled there with his legs spread in his faded jeans with the pocket chain, wearing the same brown leather bracelet he’d had forever and his beloved blue T-shirt that announced WOMEN RULE in big letters, and for some reason, only one shoe. The other one had only made it halfway across the room with him. His curly brown hair was all askew. Like me, Gabe was twenty-eight, but he looked about fifteen when he was asleep, other than the stubble on his jaw.

  I plucked the takeout coffee cup from his hand and set it on the table before he spilled his double Americano all over himself.

  “Are you asleep?” I said sorta quietly, in case he was.

  “I wish,” he moaned, not opening his eyes. “Do I have time for a power nap before this interview?”

  I checked the time on my phone. “Nope.”

  He made a long, incoherent, grumbly noise but didn’t get up.

  Shit.

  We were months deep into this tour and it was taking a toll on every member of the band. We’d never lived this fast or this large, and the four of us were all holding on tight—to each other—so we wouldn’t blow apart at the seams. It was the only way we knew how to survive it: stick together. We were in uncharted territory now, and as it turned out, the waters were wild and rough.

  Especially for someone like me.

  There was literally no way I’d be surviving daily life right now, much less the endless performances and the general overwhelmingness of life as a rock star, without him. Gabe Romanko had been my best friend since we were just kids. He’d been my partner in music since the day I could (barely) strum a guitar. He was my other—and arguably better—half in pretty much every way other than the romantic and the sexual. If it weren’t for Gabe, I’d still be playing guitar for myself in a basement somewhere, instead of on a major record label, headlining a world tour with our band, A
live.

  Come to think of it… I probably wouldn’t even be playing guitar at all, since Gabe was the one who’d gotten us into music in the first place.

  And all of the above meant that I should really step up here.

  “Why don’t you just let me do the interview?” I forced the words out, even though my heart was already thumping harder than normal just thinking about it. I knew he’d do it for me, without question. He had done it for me, too many times to count.

  His eyes cracked open.

  “Then you can sleep.” I started thumbing through messages on my phone. “And we’ll meet up for dinner.”

  “It’s your birthday, man. I can’t do that to you.”

  “My birthday was over at midnight.”

  “You hate interviews.”

  “So? What else am I gonna do today?” I had the whole day off for my birthday, since we’d had a gig yesterday, on my actual birthday. But with Gabe scheduled for an interview, our drummer, Xander, doing a drum demo at a local music store, and our lead singer, Dean, half-pickled and useless, as usual, I had zero plans.

  “You can’t go alone, Cary,” he reminded me.

  As if I could ever forget.

  “I’ll drag Dean with me, so they get two rock stars for the price of one.”

  He eyed me skeptically with half-open eyes. Granted, Dean was no replacement for Gabe, but he was better than no one.

  “He’s got nothing better to do,” I said. “He’s passed out under a pile of chicks in Xander’s room right now.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Xan texted. Says he slept in Dean’s room this morning because Dean turned his bed into, and I quote him here, ‘pussy stew.’”

  Gabe groaned. “You show up with that hungover crab factory, they’re not gonna be happy. The disc jockeys at that station sound like super-nerds, and major fans of yours truly. They wanted to interview me about my podcast and the basses I build.”

  “Whatever. It’s local radio. I can nerd out with them about the wonder that is Gabe Romanko all day long. I know you better than you know yourself, brother.” I tussled his hair, not gently.

  Then I headed for the bathroom while he muttered something like, “You’re gonna regret this.”

  I searched through the crap that was spilled across the bathroom counter in my haste to get ready for the show last night, grabbing two bottles of pills from the many on offer—the yellow ones and the blue ones. We had this “band doctor” who prescribed us pretty much anything, which probably wasn’t brilliant, but it was handy.

  I threw back a couple of the yellow pills, the ones with the name on the label I couldn’t even pronounce, and washed them down with my coffee. I wasn’t supposed to take them regularly, just to control my adrenaline—and my pounding heart, my shaky voice and limbs—when I had to do something like an interview. I rarely, almost never, did interviews. But for Gabe…

  I took a deep breath and told myself I could do this, even though I knew I’d hate every second of it. I was already feeling shaky just thinking about it. I threw back some more coffee and did some controlled breathing, looking myself square in the eyes in the mirror.

  Nothing bad will happen.

  It’s only in your head.

  As I reemerged from the bathroom, Gabe said, “Do I need to remind you that Dickhead Dean gives shit interviews?”

  “I’ll do the interview. Dean can troll Tinder for all I care. But I’m dragging him there with me to punish him for being a twat.”

  “Don’t insult twats like that, man.” Gabe grinned, his eyes half-slits. “And why are you mad at him now?”

  “I’m not mad. But he ditched my birthday party before midnight to host an orgy, and he didn’t even do it in his own bed. Just saying.”

  “And that’s why we call him Dickhead Dean.”

  “Yup. Look alive.” I tossed the bottle of blue pills at him.

  He caught it.

  “Take that and get some sleep. Stay here in my room so no one knows where you are. Then they can’t bother you for a while. Turn off your phone. I’ll wake you up in time for dinner.”

  Gabe squinted at the label on the bottle. “I don’t like sleeping pills. They make me sleepy.”

  I just kinda laughed. “You’re a mess.”

  He looked over at me soberly; I knew that look well. “You really okay to do this?”

  “I’m good.” I took another sip of coffee. “Beta blockers.”

  “Thought you weren’t supposed to drink coffee with those.”

  I abandoned my takeout cup on the way to the door. “Yes, dear.”

  “Or booze,” he said.

  I turned back to him and gave him my most angelic face. “I’m at least eighty-percent sober right now, brother.”

  He smirked. “Quit complaining. I’ll get you drunk again tonight.” He was clutching the pill bottle to his chest now, like it was a kitten or something.

  I pointed at it and gave him a stern look. “Don’t take too many of those.”

  “I won’t. Happy birthday!” he called after me as I opened the door.

  “It was yesterday,” I reminded him, pausing in the doorway. “You can stop saying that.”

  “Yeah, but I was drunk yesterday and I don’t remember half of it. I’m buying you dinner tonight and we’re celebrating again.”

  “Good. Because you owe me one for doing this interview with Dean.”

  He grinned.

  Then I walked out. But I would always remember his last words to me as I shut that door.

  “I love you, brother,” he said.

  Chapter One

  Cary

  The Day I Tried to Live

  Five years later…

  June

  I stepped out of the shower to find my phone vibrating on the bathroom counter. I glanced at the screen.

  Courteney.

  My little sister was calling. Again.

  I tried to ignore it as I turned up Soundgarden and towel dried my hair. I hadn’t shaved in a week, so I took my time as I lathered up and started shaving.

  The members of the Players had this “vortex playlist” thing they did, where each of them made a playlist of twenty songs, by other artists, that expressed their own musical “blood, guts and soul.” Summer Sorensen, their keys/synth player, came up with the idea when they formed the band, sort of a musical getting to know you.

  After they’d contracted me to produce their debut album, she sent me their vortex playlists and I listened through each one.

  Then I took it a step further. I asked each member of the Players to tell me their three all-time favorite bands. Like the bands they would’ve literally joined themselves if they could’ve. And I listened through each of those bands’ complete studio discographies.

  Today, I was on the top three from Matt Brohmer, the Players’ bassist. For the last few hours I’d had Soundgarden pouring through the speakers in the walls all over my house, so I could hear the music in whatever room I was in. I was now on Superunknown, their most popular album and arguably their best, though I was partial to Badmotorfinger myself, for personal reasons.

  If you asked me, music was always personal.

  I’d finish Soundgarden tomorrow morning, then get listening to the top three bands chosen by Ashley Player, the Players’ lead singer and guitarist, starting with the Red Hot Chili Peppers. It would probably take me the rest of the day and part of the night just to get through the Chili Peppers’ discography alone, but that was fine with me.

  Without music, my house was too quiet anyway.

  I had to keep myself occupied with something to fill the void. It felt strange to have this much free time on my hands. It was only two days. A matter of hours. But to me, it felt like a long damn time. I was used to being busy, consumed with my work, with music. Every moment of every day.

  The last album I’d produced, the Static Ice Diva’s latest, had taken nearly eight months of my life. Way longer than it should’ve. I was glad i
t was finished, but I also hated finishing an album—unless I was plunging myself fucking immediately into something else.

  My work on the album had officially wrapped up yesterday, including final talks with the record company, publicists, issuing a statement that could be used in place of an actual interview with me. I never did interviews anymore. I hadn’t done one in five years. I really didn’t have anything to say.

  Everything I had to say was already in the music.

  If you knew how to listen, you’d figure it out.

  When I finished shaving, I walked into my bedroom. Felt strange; I hadn’t slept up here in years. Everything was neat and clean and cold. I slept in my music studio downstairs, and most of the time I showered there, too. I did pretty much everything down there. I only bothered coming up here now because I needed some nice clothes from the walk-in.