Behind the music…

Being best friends with a mega-star has its perks and Nicole Wilde, music journalist, laps them up. But when said friend, Dylan King, gorgeous lead singer of The Burnouts, has zero sense of self-preservation – once a drop of alcohol hits his blood stream ‒ and an inability to keep ‘little Dylan’ in his pants, it also comes with responsibilities.

Now, Nicole has to track down Dylan in time to play a charity gig tomorrow. Half a dozen groupies, a haunted hotel, a tattoo parlour, a reality show runner-up and a crazy bed-hopping, sleepless night later – will she find him before the tour bus leaves town? And when she does, is it time to head home? Or to jump on the tour bus and go along for the ride!

Between a Rockstar and a Hard Place is the fun and fabulous prequel to Portia MacIntosh’s Starstruck.Look out for it March 2014.

Look out for more books by Portia MacIntosh from Carina UK

Starstruck (March 2014)

Between a Rockstar and a Hard Place

Portia MacIntosh

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2014

Copyright © Portia MacIntosh 2014

Portia MacIntosh asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2014 ISBN: 9781472090973

Version date: 2018-07-23

When she was fifteen years old, Portia MacIntosh fell in with a bad crowd…rockstars. After disappearing on tour and living the rock ’n’ roll lifestyle for a few years, Portia landed a job in the music industry – but only so that she didn’t have to join the real world just yet.

Now in her twenties, Portia is ready to spill the beans on the things she has witnessed over the years. Well, kind of. If her famous friends knew that she was borrowing their lives to inspire her fiction, they would stop inviting her on tour and banish her from the inner circle. Then she really would have to rejoin the real world, and she’s still not ready for that.

Portia only started writing novels to share her secrets, but then she realised she actually quite liked writing – maybe even more than she likes living on a bus with a bunch of smelly boys – and has since tried her hand at writing about other things.

Check out Portia’s blog at: www.portiamacintosh.tumblr.com

Follow her on Twitter: https://twitter.com/PortiaMacIntosh

…and Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/macintoshportia

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgement

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Excerpt

Endpages

About the Publisher

Thank you to the HQ Digital UK team – especially Victoria, Lucy and Jo. I’m looking forward to working with you on the next book.

None of this would have been possible without my lovely friends in the music industry. Thank you to all the bands I know/have worked with over the years – I’ve had so much fun, and I hope you don’t mind me taking inspiration from our adventures.

Most importantly of all, thank you to my incredible family for humouring me throughout my Almost Famous phase (I’m sure it will end soon). Your love and support mean so much to me.

And finally, thank you to my band boy.

For J.A & J.O

Chapter One: Out of the frying pan, into the crowd

They say when you can’t find something, the first thing you should do is look for it in the last place you remember seeing it. Well, the last time I saw the thing I have misplaced, he was up on stage performing some of his greatest hits in front of 50,000 screaming fans. I am, of course, talking about super-famous rockstar Dylan King – best known for being the lead singer in The Burnouts, less known for being my best friend.

We first met when I was just starting out as a music journalist and he made it his mission to sleep with me. He pulled out all the stops to impress me, but the harder he tried, the harder I resisted and I’m so glad that I did because I’d rather have him as a friend than a famous notch on my bedpost. There are downsides to being his best friend, though. Dylan is what you’d call a liability, and despite his fame and his ability to sell records, his record label know that he can be unpredictable and they’re constantly telling him to watch his behaviour – this is like telling a bull to ignore the colour red because Dylan only views their warnings as a challenge to see just how far he can push them, and one day he will push them too far. That’s where I come in. I’m a Dylan wrangler. I’m the only one who is always there in the background, regulating his rebellious behaviour and making sure he doesn’t take things too far. I’m the one who makes sure he is on time for sound checks, the one who makes sure he carries condoms and the one who always tries to make sure there is at least a little blood in his alcohol stream. The reality is that Dylan, Dill as I call him, is almost always drunk, has little respect for women and thinks that he is God. Still, I love him to bits, and I’m happy to do all the things his tour manager is paid to do. It’s not that Claire doesn’t do her job well, it’s just that Dylan doesn’t listen to her.

Speaking of Claire, I spotted her in the press tent not too long ago, so I wander over to see if she has any idea where Dylan is.

‘Hey, Claire, how’s it going?’

‘Nicole, hello. Not bad, although your boy is drunk,’ she replies.

Why is it that he’s my boy when he does something wrong? I don’t get the credit or the big pay cheques when his sell-out tours go well.

‘When isn’t he?’ I joke. ‘Have you seen him since he came off stage?’

‘Oh yes. It was immediately after he came off stage, actually. He asked me if I had heard of his band and then he tried to kiss me.’

I burst out laughing, although Claire isn’t amused. All these years she’s worked for him, and he still doesn’t recognise her when he’s smashed. Then again, when Dylan is smashed he is capable (or not capable in some cases) of anything.

‘Mikey is just doing an interview, why don’t you ask him?’ Claire suggests. ‘And when you do find Dylan, tell him I need a word.’

I decide to hang around and wait for Mikey, Dylan’s younger brother/bandmate. Mikey is probably more talented than Dylan, but Dylan has the balls needed to be a front-man. Mikey isn’t quite as tall, dark or handsome as his brother ‒ and he doesn’t misbehave quite as spectacularly ‒ so he is often overshadowed by his older sibling. Mikey is happy, so long as he is strumming his guitar and writing incredible songs for Dylan to sing.

I have been working in the music industry for a long time now – and hanging around with musicians for even longer – which is probably what makes me the most qualified when it comes to looking after Dylan, more so than his tour manager or his own brother. I was a young, impressionable teen when I made friends with my first band, and if you hang around with rockstars for long enough, their bad behaviour is bound to rub off on you, which is why I am so savvy when it comes to bands, but so crap at living in the real world and being an adult. I can tame rockstars, interview the most difficult celebrities and make my face of make-up last for several days when I disappear on tour without warning. Real life though, I’m not great at that. Despite being in my twenties, my bedroom walls are still covered with posters of bands, my cooker is nothing but extra storage space for my clothes and relationships with normal guys are just not something I’m interested in. I like my relationships to be fleeting and newsworthy – not that I’d ever kiss and tell. That’s another reason Dylan relies on me, because he knows I’ll keep my mouth shut about everything that happens on the road. The bottom line is that even though I’m a disorganised drama-magnet who is always running late, I am an invaluable asset to a touring band, thanks to my years of experience.

‘Yo, Mike,’ I call out as soon as he is done taking questions.

‘Hey, Nic. Did you enjoy the show?’

‘I did,’ I tell him – and I mean it. I watched it from down in the photo pit, that’s the best seat in the house. Well, the best standing position in the field, this is the Rockin’ Radio Summer Roadshow after all – a one-day festival that takes place in the middle of a field in the middle of nowhere, with only the best of the best from the music biz invited to perform.

‘You haven’t seen Dylan, have you?’ I ask.

‘Nope. He ran off stage as soon as we finished our set and that was the last I saw of him.’

I noticed that he ran off pretty sharp-ish too. One minute he was thanking the audience for being the best crowd ever (like he always does) and the next he was gone. Just like that.

A worried look spreads across my friend’s face – he knows Dylan, he knows what he’s like – he knows that finding him might not be that easy.

‘No worries, dude. I’ll have a look around, he’ll be here somewhere.’

Mikey doesn’t seem very comforted by my words, but that’s about as much reassurance as I can fake right now. I know that Dylan gets distracted by things (usually girls) and wanders off, and when he does he can be a nightmare to find. I won’t panic yet though, not until I’ve looked everywhere.

I flash my pass so that I can search all the different backstage areas, but Dylan is nowhere to be seen. Even more worryingly, no one but Claire can recall seeing him since he was on stage.

I run my hands through my long blonde hair and let out a sigh of exasperation, but then something catches my eye – a little door hidden behind a huge security bloke. That’s the door that goes out into the crowd. We drove straight into the backstage area, so there would be no need for Dylan to go through that door, in fact it would be quite stupid for Dylan to go through that door because he would be mobbed by adoring fans.

‘Excuse me, I don’t suppose you’ve seen Dylan King from The Burnouts since he came off stage, have you?’ I ask – it can’t hurt to ask, can it?

‘Are you kidding?’ he asks, his tough-guy expression melting into a huge grin. ‘He signed my abs!’

The big security guy pulls up his shirt and shows me his pen-marked stomach. The signature is all wiggly from where the pen has passed over the contours of his impressive eight-pack, but it’s definitely Dylan’s autograph.

‘Awesome, you can cover that back up now,’ I tell him, a little freaked out by all the muscle and the fact he wanted Dylan to put a pen to it. ‘So where did he go?’

‘Out there,’ he tells me, gesturing towards the little door behind him with his thumb.

‘Into the crowd?’ I ask, unable to hide my fear.

‘Yeah.’ He laughs manically. ‘I told him not to.’

So let me get this straight, a very drunk Dylan King has ventured out into the 50,000-strong crowd. The man can’t even go to Starbucks without getting mobbed, why would he think this was a good idea? What’s even more worrying is that, if we say half of the crowd are female, that’s 25,000 girls he could potentially… get distracted by.

Oh, Dylan, why do you make my job so difficult? This isn’t even my job, I’m a journalist. That’s the real reason I’m here today, to cover the event, not to hand-hold the elusive Mr King. Somehow I always end up doing both.

It’s 6 p.m. now. I’ll have a quick glance around the crowd for movement – any movement that looks like a rockstar being mobbed – and if I still haven’t found him… Well, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

Chapter Two: Tat for tit

‘The fucker!’ Claire yells. ‘Fucker, fucker, fucker.’

‘I get it, he’s a fucker, but stating the obvious isn’t going to achieve anything.’

I may be used to Dylan’s bullshit, but Claire cannot tolerate it. I had to tell her though, I can’t be expected to find him all on my own. Oh, and she is paid to handle him, whereas I’m just his mug of a friend.

‘You know he’s supposed to be playing a show for the Magical Star Foundation tomorrow,’ Claire rants. ‘I thought the challenge was going to be getting him to sober up for a kids’ charity gig, not putting together a last-minute press release saying we found him dead in a ditch and therefore he cannot perform.’

‘Claire, relax. We’re not going to find him dead in a ditch, there are no ditches in this field.’

‘I will dig a ditch and kill him in it myself if he doesn’t turn up soon,’ she fumes.

I don’t point out to her that this would be counterproductive.

‘Listen to me, Claire, I know how Dylan operates. I’ll find him, don’t worry.’

‘You’d better,’ she warns me, ‘because I’m sick of his shit. I won’t be covering for him. If he isn’t checked out of his room and on the tour bus by 6 p.m. tomorrow, then we are leaving without him. The label can deal with him as they see fit.’

‘Leave it with me. He’s probably with some girl – somewhere. I’ll find him and he will be on the bus at 6 p.m. tomorrow. Take the night off, relax in the hotel spa, you’ve earned it.’

Has she bollocks earned it, but she wants Dylan’s head on a stick and she’ll only hold me back. Sometimes I feel like she wants him to get in trouble, even if it’s just so that he learns a lesson the hard way, but all that will do is get him dropped by his label, he’ll drink his fortune away and end up recording irritating car insurance ads for local radio. The final nail in his career’s coffin will be an appearance on Never Mind The Buzzcocks, in the line-up of people who used to be someone.

‘Fine. But, Nicole, if you do find him, please make sure he behaves tonight. Not too many girls, not too much drink, and if anyone at the hotel tries to offer him drugs, do be careful.’

I laugh, rather loudly. Claire just stares at me, clearly not getting what is so funny.

‘You said doobie,’ I explain. ‘If they offer him drugs, doobie careful.’

Still nothing, not even a smile.

‘Here.’ She drops his backpack at my feet. ‘He’s your problem now.’

As Claire storms off, I pull faces at her behind her back. She’s in the wrong line of work for someone who hates musicians so much, but maybe I’d be grumpy all the time if I had to deal with Dylan’s shit for a living.

I have a look through Dylan’s bag – not that I’m expecting to find a map that will lead me straight to him or anything, but you never know. As luck would have it, it’s not what is in his bag that gives me a clue, it’s what isn’t there – his phone.

Grabbing my own phone from my handbag, I call Dylan’s number and after several rings a girl answers.

‘Dylan King from The Burnout’s phone,’ she chirps with a giggle. I hate her already.

‘Hello, can I speak to Dylan, please?’

‘Who are you?’ she asks rather rudely.

‘I’m Nicole. Who are you?’

‘Nicole who?’

‘Nicole Wilde.’

The girl pauses for a moment before she replies, adopting a more serious tone to her voice.

‘Do you work for him?’

I tell her yes. She’s probably more likely to help me if she thinks I’m someone official.

‘Oh, OK.’ Her voice relaxes again. ‘Well, we just had sex and he told me I’d get a signed CD. Is it your job to bring me it?’

Oh dear. I wish I could say that this was the first time something like this had happened, but I’d be lying. Every now and then Dylan meets a girl with real integrity, a girl who won’t sleep with him just because he is Dylan King from The Burnouts – lucky for Dylan, these girls can usually be talked around with a signed album.

‘Is Dylan still there?’ I ask.

‘He’s gone to get champagne. So are you going to bring me my CD?’

‘Yes, just tell me where you are and I’ll bring it now.’

‘Awesome,’ she squeaks. ‘I’m at the Williamson Hotel, room 192.’

Luckily for me, the Williamson Hotel is where we’re staying – it’s the only hotel in this tiny town, which is situated somewhere in the middle of nowhere. Everyone who performed at the Rockin’ Radio Summer Roadshow is staying there, so at least Dylan is exactly where I need him to be.

After a short taxi journey, I arrive at the hotel. I had expected to find Dylan propping up the hotel bar, but he must have gone back up to see his special new friend for round two.

I knock on the door of room 192. An underwear-clad girl answers the door, completely unfazed by the fact that she is nearly naked and I am a complete stranger.

‘Are you Nicole with the CD?’ she asks me.

‘Are you the random girl with the Dylan?’ I ask in return.

She stares at me blankly, yes, she’s just Dylan’s type – nearly naked and entirely stupid.

‘Dylan never came back.’

‘Right,’ I reply. I’d pretend to be surprised to spare her feelings but I don’t think she’d even notice. ‘Well, can I have his phone, please?’

‘CD first,’ she insists.

Funnily enough I’m not in the habit of carrying around signed copies of any of The Burnouts’ albums, but I need that phone.

‘Sorry, we’re all out. It’s a busy time of year for him.’

‘Whatever,’ she replies. ‘No CD, no phone. Get me my CD or I’ll start forwarding photos.’

I cannot believe Barbie’s slutty brunette BFF is holding Dylan’s phone ransom.

‘OK, I’ll find you a CD,’ I promise her.

‘Awesome. Laters,’ she replies, slamming the door in my face.

‘Laters,’ I repeat to myself in a silly voice. I have no idea where I’m going to get one of Dylan’s CDs – let alone one he has signed. I suppose I’ll have to find the man himself for that, but I need the phone to find him in the first place. It’s a Catch-22 situation.

Chapter Three: The wrangler’s new clothes

As I am heading back down to the hotel lobby, I bump into Claire. The poor woman looks frazzled. Her short brown hair is all ruffled and unless she’s been dragged through that ditch she was talking about earlier, I’d guess she’s been tearing it out.

‘Here.’ She pushes a keycard into my hand. ‘The spare key for Dylan’s room, he’s your problem now.’

‘You already said that,’ I call after her, but she isn’t sticking around for a chat.

I place the keycard safely in my purse.

Originally I had intended to head straight home after the gig, but when I saw Dylan earlier he insisted that I stay in town for the night, so that I could go to the after-party with him. The hotel was fully booked – the only hotel in town – but Dylan talked me into staying by telling me I could share his room. That might sound a bit weird, but on tour it’s no big deal to share a room with your mates – male or female. Everyone is so used to living in such a small space on the bus, and often you have to crash wherever you can for the night. Not only would no one bat an eyelid about us sharing a room, but if there’s an after-party going on then there’s a good chance we’ll be there until the early hours. Well, that was the plan, but as you can see Dylan has stood me up for sex. It’s not even like I can enjoy a night in a hotel room on my own, because I’m going to have to waste my night tracking him down.

I hear girls screaming outside the hotel as more musicians are ushered in by Security. As I look outside, I see a lot of Dylan fans, but one in particular who is right at the front of the barrier could be the answer to my problems.

‘Excuse me, did Dylan sign that T-shirt today?’ I ask her.

‘He sure did,’ she tells me excitedly. ‘Not that long ago actually, he came out here and spoke to us. I’m his biggest fan.’

‘That’s great. How much for the T-shirt?’ I ask, cutting to the chase. If I can’t get the chick in room 192 a signed CD, maybe a T-shirt will do.

The fan gasps. ‘It’s not for sale!’

‘Come on,’ I reason, ‘I’m a friend of Dylan’s, I can get you something even cooler.’

‘Yeah, right,’ she says with a laugh. ‘If he’s your friend, why not get him to sign that dress you’re wearing?’

‘Like I’d let him anywhere my Alexander McQueen with his marker pen,’ I say, mainly to myself, although now I have her attention.

‘That is a nice dress,’ she says, smiling widely.

‘Thank you, it’s…’ I trail off because I know what she’s thinking. ‘No way! Never going to happen! For starters, I am wearing it, I can’t take it off. Also, do you know how much it cost?’

‘I have a rough idea,’ she says, raising her eyebrows. ‘I could never afford a dress like that! And anyway, I’m wearing this T-shirt. You can’t leave me topless.’

I massage my temples as I think for a moment. She’s right, I can’t leave her without clothes, but I can’t give her this dress. I love this dress. And if I’m being honest, even I couldn’t afford this dress – I had to skip meals just to be able to afford (and fit into) this dress. Well, when you’re rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous, you’ve got to try and keep up. The thing is, if I don’t find Dylan soon he’ll be in so much trouble. I suppose Dylan could buy me a new dress… but I’d still be bottomless in the meantime.

‘I don’t have any other clothes with me,’ I tell her honestly.

‘That’s OK, you can have my shorts too.’

Wow, isn’t she generous?

‘Fine.’ Well, what else can I do? I need that phone, so it’s bye-bye favourite dress.

The fan starts unbuttoning her shorts.

‘Erm, can we do this in the toilets or something?’ I ask her, just in time to stop her taking them off in front of all these people.

She nods, and I gesture for a security guard to let her past the barrier.

In the hotel ladies’ room we make the swap. My beautiful pink dress in exchange for her super-short denim jeans and her signed T-shirt.

‘A pleasure doing business with you,’ the girl says as she leaves the bathroom.

The pleasure is all hers. I’m lucky we are almost the same size, but this look is a little bit boyish for my girly-girl taste. Dylan will not only be replacing my dress, he’ll be buying me a whole new wardrobe to make up for this. My only problem now is that when I hand the T-shirt over to the girl in room 192, I’m going to be wandering around in my bra. Hopefully, if I call Mikey he’ll bring me a spare T-shirt or a hoodie.

I knock on the door of room 192 – again – and the underwear-clad girl answers – again.

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