The Replacement War: A Rock Star Rom Com Read online

  The other guys in my band can’t say the same.

  After I pose for what feels like hundreds of photos, the ushers finally announce last call to get people moving out into the casino, and once we smile for the last picture and throw up our devil horns, I’m finally released from my duties for the night.

  I head to the break room bathroom first, where I wash off the eyeliner and rinse the sweat off my face, and then I pull my hair back with a black hair elastic.

  When I walk back into the break room, I hear a few of the female dealers gossiping around a small table. Their backs are to me, but I’m by the lockers anyway, out of their line of sight.

  “I heard it’s huge,” one of them says.

  “I heard he knows how to use it,” another says.

  “God, he’s so hot. Sometimes I watch him when he’s shuffling, and that bone structure...”

  I can’t help but wonder who they’re talking about. I mentally run through the male dealers I know, and none of them fit the bill of having good bone structure or looking like they have a huge dick they know how to use.

  “Kelly said that rhythm he has on stage isn’t just for the stage.”

  Kelly? As in the girl I live with and sometimes fuck?

  The other chick giggles. “She told me that, too. She said living with him is basically like living in a fantasy world. He walks around without a shirt all day. God, I’d get nothing done because I’d be staring at him all day.”

  I walk around without a shirt on all day.

  Well, I did up until today.

  I’ll think twice about that now.

  I debate for all of a second what to do, and then because I’m me and I’m not subtle, I walk out from the lockers, head held high.

  They look at me and then each other with wide eyes. “Have a great night, ladies. I’ll just be heading home to walk around without a shirt and get into a rhythm with my huge appendage.”

  I walk out the back door toward the parking lot, embarrassed laughter following me all the way.

  CHAPTER 2: LEXI

  “Maybe don’t trip this time,” Andy says, causing us all to break into laughter.

  Danny narrows his eyes at me in jest, and I pretend to stop giggling. It’s useless, though. Last night Danny tripped over a cord and fell backward right onto his ass in the middle of a song.

  Ever the professional, though, he kept right on singing. He didn’t miss a single chord on his guitar or a single word of lyrics.

  The rest of us lost it, though. We laughed right on stage.

  That’s what he gets for walking backward and maintaining eye contact with me while he does it. It was one of our duets, and since we’re co-lead singers of our little band, we tend to sing our duets to each other.

  We have a lot of fun, the four of us. Danny has become my best friend, and Andy and Sam are right up there with him.

  There’s one big problem, though.

  I’m pretty sure we have different visions of what’s going to happen to Electric Red Summer. Danny, Andy, and Sam are all happy with how we’ve grown locally famous. We’ve got a gig lined up almost every night, and that’s about all there is to it.

  Andy is married with a couple of kids, and so is Sam. They’ve planted roots here in Nashville, and it wouldn’t be so easy to just pick up and move somewhere else, let alone go on tour.

  Danny and Andy are cousins, and their whole family is local. He doesn’t want to leave, either.

  I just think everyone here is happy where they are.

  Except me.

  I don’t have the nerve to tell them.

  Mostly because I’m afraid of what it’ll do. I have nothing else lined up, so there’s not anywhere for me to go.

  But I have bigger visions than staying and playing here in Nashville forever.

  It’s a great place to start, a great place to set down roots and grow. But while some of us are happy in the planters where we find ourselves, others are finding they need a little more space. A little more sunlight. A little bigger dream.

  If that sounds like a country song, well, that’s because it is.

  I wrote it by myself, though, and I haven’t shared it with anybody.

  I keep thinking it’ll be the first song I share with the next band I play in. Or, better yet, it’ll be my first solo song, the one I use to pitch record labels.

  Or maybe not. Maybe it’ll just stay in my little notebook tucked into a dark corner of my desk as I continue playing with people who are good friends.

  I’m happy here with Electric Red Summer. I just can’t stop feeling like there’s something more to my career than this. There’s something bigger waiting for me, and one day my time will come.

  “You okay, Lex?” Sam asks when Danny and Andy step outside for a vape and smoke break.

  “Yeah,” I murmur. I try to stay even keel and keep my emotions from splashing all over my expression, but Sam is a good friend. She can always tell when something’s up with me.

  “Something going on?” she digs.

  I shrug. “No. I’m good.” I know she’s asking both for the sake of our band and for me personally.

  “You ready for tonight’s gig?”

  I nod. “Yeah. I just...I don’t know. I feel like we’re stuck in a rut. Or maybe I am.”

  A flash of alarm crosses her face, but she masks it quickly. I know she’s worried I’m going to run, and let’s be honest: I’m the most likely out of this group to head out. I’m not married with kids, and Nashville isn’t where I set my roots. I grew up in Georgia, actually, and moved to Nashville to try to break into the music scene.

  And now I want to make the next big move. Nashville is the center of country music, but New York or Los Angeles would be more fitting for the career I want.

  I know it’s not easy.

  But I’m a hard worker, and I’m unique. I’m a girl who plays bass guitar. I dabble with the electric guitar, too, and I’ve played piano since I was tall enough to reach the keys from the bench—and around the same time, my parents put me in voice lessons.

  I can sing. I can dance. I can play bass guitar.

  And I want more than Nashville has offered me.

  As soon as the opportunity strikes, I’m out.

  After our gig, Danny drives me home. I’m about to bid him goodnight and head in when he says, “Can we talk?”

  I nod. “Of course. You want to come in?”

  He cuts the engine in response and we both get out of the car. I unlock the front door of the small condo I rent and he follows me inside. We sit on my couch.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “You seem a little distant and I just want to make sure you’re okay.” His blue eyes are genuine and his brows are furrowed with concern.

  I nod. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

  Like Sam, I think he’s afraid I’m a flight risk...and maybe he’s right to be worried about that.

  “You did amazing tonight,” he says softly. “The crowd really loved ‘Falling.’”

  I smile. “Yeah, they did.”

  “Falling for you, I’m falling for you,” he sings, and as much as I like him, when he breaks out into song...that’s just not my thing.

  We don’t live in some musical.

  As musical as my life is, I typically don’t just stop in the middle of a conversation to break out into song.

  When I’m cooking or showering or driving, sure. But when I’m talking? Not so much.

  “I need to tell you something,” he says.

  My eyes dart to his, and the way he’s wringing his hands in his lap says it all.

  Oh Gosh.

  No.

  Don’t do this.

  Don’t ruin what we have.

  You’re not going to hear what you want.

  I cut him off at the pass. I grab his hand in mine and squeeze it. “I love you, Danny, and I love how you’re my best friend. I wouldn’t trade what we have for the world. You know you can tell me anything.”

&
nbsp; He presses his lips together and nods. “I love you, too,” he finally says, and I let out a breath of relief.

  That was a close one.

  I do love him, just not in the way he was just looking at me.

  Besides, having a man in my life tying me here will only make it harder to leave when my chance comes along. And I have faith that it will come along.

  CHAPTER 3: GAGE

  “You’re taller than you looked on stage,” some dude says to me right before our photo is snapped.

  “You’re uglier up close than you looked from the stage.” That’s what I want to say, but instead I go with, “Thanks, man.”

  What the fuck does he expect me to say to that?

  Once everyone gets the photo they stood in line for, the four of us take the back hallways toward the break room.

  “Anyone in for getting fucked up tonight?” Mikey asks.

  I raise my hand then turn to my locker. I pull my phone out and check my texts. It’s always the first thing I do after a gig, and usually it’s to see if anyone has hit me up for a booty call. Because as much fun as it is to get fucked up with the guys in my band, sex is more fun.

  I have a message from my roommate waiting.

  Kelly: I have no plans tonight. Let me know if you wanna.

  I chuckle. That’s our little signal. “You wanna?” “Sure.” It’s shorthand for you wanna bang? It’s not romantic, but it gets the job done.

  I don’t not “wanna” with her tonight, but we just did it two nights ago. I’m afraid she’s getting too attached, that this fuck friends deal is turning into something more for her.

  It still isn’t for me.

  I like her, sure, and she’s fun and a great lay. But that’s all it is. She doesn’t make me see rainbows and fireworks or any of that cheesy shit the girl you’re in love with is supposed to make you see.

  I have a missed call and a voicemail from a number I don’t recognize, so I listen just in case it’s a different option for my night.

  “I’m calling for Gage Hoffman of Sin City Crue. My name is Trevor Godwin and I’m an A and R executive with Ashmark Records. One of our clients is interested in talking to you. Please call me back at your earliest convenience.”

  He rattles off his number, and I stare into my locker for a beat while my heart races with anticipation.

  Ashmark Records?

  As in one of the biggest record labels in the world?

  This has to be a prank. My heart rate slows to normal.

  Who the hell would want to talk to me?

  I mentally run through the bands I know are on Ashmark’s roster. Vail. Beyond Gold. MFB. York Short. Capital Kingsmen. Noteworthy.

  And those are just the huge names I can think of off the top of my head. There are dozens of others at all stages of their careers.

  And someone from one of those bands wants to talk to me?

  It just doesn’t make sense.

  A little rip of anger rushes through me that someone would have the gall to pull this kind of prank.

  But no one really even knows that I haven’t been happy playing for Sin City Crue for a while. I bottle that shit and keep it inside, just like the majority of my thoughts and emotions.

  It’s nobody’s business, and nobody really wants to hear about it...but more than that, it would just feel like complaining. I’m lucky to have a regular gig, so I shut the fuck up about it.

  Prank or not, my curiosity is piqued.

  “I need to make a call,” I tell the guys, and I head out to the back alley for privacy. It’s late—after eleven—but this guy called me an hour ago while I was on stage, so he’s probably up.

  “Trevor Godwin,” he answers.

  “Trevor, hi. This is Gage Hoffman,” I say with as much awkwardness as I can muster.

  “Gage, thanks for returning my call. One of my clients saw your show in Vegas a few weeks ago and was highly impressed with your talent on the bass guitar. His band is looking for a new bassist, and they’re interested in meeting with you and hearing you play in person.”

  I roll my eyes. “Right. So I’m supposed to believe someone who is signed with Ashmark randomly heard me and wants me to come play for their band? Gimme a break.”

  “I didn’t say they want you to come play for their band. They want to hear you in person. I’m extending the invitation for you to audition,” he says.

  “What band?” I ask, my voice a clear challenge.

  “It’s My Favorite Band, better known as MFB,” he says, and I can’t help my laugh.

  Right. One of the biggest bands in the world wants me to audition to play bass for them.

  “Their lead guitarist, Adam Wilson, saw your show. Their bassist recently left for another band, so they’re looking for someone new.”

  “Right, okay, sign me up.” My tone is full of sarcasm, not missed by whoever this punk is.

  But I have to admit, I’m curious as to whether this is real. I know Adam Wilson is the guitarist of MFB. I know their bassist just left.

  But why would they want me? I’m just a guy in a cover band.

  “I understand your reservations here, Mr. Hoffman, but this is a sincere offer. I’d be happy to send you a contract as proof,” he says. “In fact, if you give me your email address, I’ll send something now so you can see the Ashmark domain in my email address.”

  I sigh, and he continues at my silence.

  “Would you like me to continue with the offer?” he asks, probably just to make sure I’m still on the line.

  “Knock yourself out,” I say.

  “Ashmark will pay for your travel to Los Angeles along with room and board. We’ll put you and the others auditioning up in a rental house until you’re either selected or sent home.”

  I’ve been itching for a way to get the hell out of Vegas. I’ve been wanting more than what I have with Sin City Crue.

  What if this is my chance?

  But, on the other hand...what if it’s not? What if it really is just a prank?

  “It’s rather short notice as the band would like to start auditions as soon as possible, and they’ll need you to agree to appear on a reality show as part of this process. You’ll be filmed twenty-four hours a day. For agreeing to appear on the reality show, you’ll be compensated a daily wage of one thousand dollars.”

  A thousand dollars a day?

  That’s certainly more than I make at these gigs with Sin City Crue combined with my side job dealing blackjack.

  Even if they decide in a week, that’s still seven grand.

  Holy shit.

  If this is real...

  I don’t let myself get my hopes up yet. I’m too damn realistic.

  “Okay, so let’s pretend for a second all this is true and this isn’t some prank. What happens if I say yes?” I ask.

  “I can assure you it isn’t a prank. If you say yes, I’ll need you to complete a few forms, and then we’ll arrange your transportation from Vegas. We’ll need you in Los Angeles no later than next Sunday afternoon to film introductions, and auditions will begin Monday. We’re in the process of gathering different bassists to audition, and the band wants a bank of around ten. They want to make the decision quickly, and I think they’re hoping that daily wage of a grand per person is enough of a motivator to make a decision within ten days to a few weeks.”

  Next Sunday afternoon is only nine days away.

  I’d have to quit Sin City Crue, the only band I’ve known for my entire professional musical career.

  The hotel has that bank of fillers if I can’t make it to a show. I don’t want to do that to the guys, but I’ve never really thought of this gig as something permanent.

  I’d have to quit my job dealing, too.

  But if I’m there for a week, I’d have seven grand in the bank to get me by.

  Shit, even if I’m there two or three days, I can get by on that a while.

  It’s a no-brainer...if it’s real.

  “Send me the paperwork,” I
finally say.

  CHAPTER 4: LEXI

  I’m gulping down a bottle of water after a hearty workout on the treadmill when my phone rings. I don’t recognize the number.

  “Hello?” I answer, and I realize too late I’m panting.

  “Is this Lexi Weber?” the man on the other end of the line asks.

  “Yes,” I say, still panting, and that probably came out sounding like I’m in the throes of passion.

  “Is this a bad time?” the man chuckles.

  I giggle with a little embarrassment. “I just finished a run. Who’s calling?”

  “This is Ethan Fuller.”

  I gasp when whoever it is names the drummer of my favorite band, and he laughs. “Stop. Who is this really?”

  “Ethan Fuller.”

  “Like the drummer of Vail?”

  He laughs again. “One and the same.”

  “Am I on that radio show again?” I ask, remembering the time Danny thought it would be hilarious to play a joke on me and the radio people were trying to convince me I won free tires for my car. It wasn’t funny.

  “Definitely not a radio show, though two of the others in my band have a podcast that I’ve appeared on a few times. But I am calling with an important question.”

  “How do you even know who I am?”

  “Because Electric Red Summer is one of my favorite indie country bands.”

  I laugh. “Right. And the queen of England is my cousin.”

  “Really? That’s kind of amazing. But seriously, Lexi, your voice on ‘One Hot Night’ is fucking incredible. I’ve never heard anything like it.”

  “Thank you,” I murmur, never sure how to take compliments like that. “Okay, prove you’re Ethan Fuller.”

  “How?”

  “What are your kids’ names?”

  “Eli and Ellie.”

  “Okay, I don’t know if that’s right.”

  He laughs.

  “What happened at Madison Square Garden one February night a few years ago?” I ask.

  “I burnt my arm when I knocked over a bass drum and flames came shooting out at me.”

  “That was pretty well documented, so I’m guessing if someone was trying to impersonate Ethan Fuller, they’d know that.” It hits me when I say all that that I’m making banter with this guy when it could really be Ethan Fuller.