Page 1

CHAPTER 1

Geo

“Just a little to the left,” Kevin, my manager, directs.

I shift my weight, turning my torso slightly to the left, and the camera flashes.

“No, no. I mean your whole body, Geo. I want you to pull that arm back, show off those fucking muscles and abs you work so hard for.”

I roll my eyes, biting my tongue as I do what he says, even though it pisses me off.

But then again, photo shoots always piss me off.

Everyone’s so demanding and brutal in how they talk to you, let alone how they pose you.

You think after ten years, I’d be used to this.

But every time it’s like a fresh hell.

I shouldn’t have to show my abs to sell records.

I didn’t need abs when I was part of the Christian Rock circuit.

I shove the thought away, because I know that only leads me to depression.

Any time I think about how things used to be before I signed with Casualty Records usually puts me in a funk.

And the last thing I want is to look as pissy as I feel for these promo images Casualty demanded I get for the upcoming Pillars Of Rock Tour.

Seriously, even Mateo and Felix don’t have to endure this as much as I do.

Probably because they are walking wet dreams, and I’m a fucking forty-year-old virgin.

God save me.

Okay, well, I’m not forty yet, but close enough.

My damn birthday is about a month and a half away, and I’ll actually be home in Arizona to perform and to celebrate with my family during the tour.

Though I can’t say I’m thrilled to be going home, either, because I know that’s a clusterfuck waiting to happen too.

Because I’ll be near him.

My former bandmate, Zebulon Ingram, aka Zeb, is one of those things in life that I am convinced exists to remind me that nothing can be perfect.

That I am not without sin, and I am not without consequence.

Leaving home to pursue this record deal was everything I’d prayed for.

For myself, and for us as a band, even though, technically, he was just my guitarist.

But Zeb didn’t want the fame and fortune, the bright shiny lights.

And he didn’t want to change himself.

As far as I was concerned, my image was a fair trade for the fame and fortune.

If Casualty wanted to transform me like Katniss in the Hunger Games from a scrawny, nerdy Christian boy next door into a dark, sculpted, tattooed rockstar, I was more than game.

This was my dream.

Playing sold out shows, hearing my song on the radio, and experiencing the world on a grander scale than Posdosh, Arizona could ever offer me.

My family thought I was selling my soul to the literal devil, and maybe they were right.

The devil is in the details, after all, and the details are what keep my checks coming in, what keeps me on the label despite my floundering sales as of late.

“Okay, better, but can you lean back a little more and grab your cock?”

I shoot Kevin a look of disdain, gaping at him.

“Absolutely not!” I bark, feeling a fresh bout of anger and embarrassment.

Kevin only shrugs.

“It was worth a shot,” he replies as the cameras flash.

“Highly inappropriate,” I respond, feeling flustered.

I’m not stupid, I know sex sells, but I also know that part of that has to do with confidence.

Confidence I don’t fucking have, because sex is very much removed from my life.

That whole fake it ‘til you make it thing... yeah, I am not good at that —the being sexy thing—at all.

At first, the label ran with it. Tried to play up the whole purity ring angle when they discovered I had one, while always showcasing me shirtless in promo and featuring me on all the talk shows to talk about it. Which was probably cute and attractive when I was twenty-nine, but now...

Now it’s just a whisper, and it’s not a good whisper.

How am I supposed to feel when everyone around me thinks I’m a fucking joke?

How is that supposed to make anyone feel confident and sexy?

I prop my leg out, swing my arm back so my leather jacket rises back enough to show the cut of my well-defined hipbones.

I guess the lack of a sex life is a win for the damn gym.

It certainly helps take the edge off, most days.

I focus my gaze on the camera, channeling my best impression of Mateo Starr, the lead singer of Mage Of Mercy and the closest thing I have to a best friend nowadays since Zeb and I haven’t spoken in ten years.

Mateo is the most commanding, confident motherfucker I know, so it usually helps if I try to impersonate someone I know is sexy and can command attention.

“Oh, baby, that is fire!” Kevin says as the cameras flash.

“Look at that fucking v! Delicious.”

His praise doesn’t feel as good as it should.

Because this—clad in leather, showing off my muscles and making sex eyes at the camera—isn’t really me.

Not by a long shot.

I don’t know who decided looking constipated and being dressed like a German fetishist was “hot”, but one day I’d like to have a word with them.

“Are we done?” I ask as the flashing stops.

“Yeah, I think we got some decent shots. You can wrap it up.”

I sigh in relief.

I slide off my jacket, reaching for my tank top.

My phone buzzes in my back pocket and I grab it once I’m dressed.

I see a couple texts.

One from my sister begging me to call her, and one from Hailee Starr, the other half of Mage Of Mercy .

Celina, Hans, me and Mateo are going out for drinks.

You free?

The invite isn’t what surprises me, but the fact Mateo is coming, does.

He’s been a bit sullen since his relationship with his actor ex took a turn for the worst.

I don’t know the details, except for the fact that the man cheated on him, though I think there’s more to it than what Mateo wants to admit, and I won’t press him for it.

If Mateo wants to take confession with me, that’s fine, but until then, I’m perfectly content to just have a few drinks with the guy and support him however he needs.

I text Hailee back with a thumbs up and she texts me the address and time, which makes me feel a little better.

Kevin claps me on the back.

“You know I’m not trying to be a pain in your ass, right?” he says, imploring me with his deep brown eyes.

I’m comfortable enough in my own skin to admit Kevin’s an attractive guy, which is also why I don’t think he gets my resistance.

The man has probably never felt inadequate in his life, and I doubt he has a problem finding a girlfriend.

Or boyfriend.

Or something.

I’ve tried to date, really I have.

But every woman I am interested in seems to think she’s going to be the one to taint my innocence or some shit, and then they’re downright pissed when I pump the brakes or tell them I don’t want to rush things.

What is wrong with wanting to get to know someone before the sex stuff?

What is wrong with wanting to fucking wait for the right person?

I brush Kevin’s hand off my shoulder, knowing he’s not trying to be a dick.

“I’d like to see you get in front of a camera and have a hundred pairs of eyes watching you. Telling you to grab your cock like you’re a piece of meat.”

Kevin sighs.

“We’ve talked about this, Geo. The label wants?—”

“I know what the label wants,” I snap.

“But what about what I want, Kev?” I head for the exit.

“What do you want, Geo? Some water, some chips, some?—”

“No, Kevin. A bag of Takis isn’t going to make me feel spicy.”

“I don’t get it, man, you act like you’re not fucking two time grammy winner Gravedigger , man. Seriously, you act like you’re some nerd trapped in a rockstar’s body or something.”

I shoot him a scathing look.

“The fact you don’t understand that I am both astounds me.”

“God, you are fucking pissy today,” he says.

“Yeah, having people yell at you and telling you to act like a damn stripper will do that to a person.”

“It’s just a picture, Geo, Christ. It’s not like I’m asking you to open an Only Fans or something.”

I sigh, knowing this argument isn’t going to get either of us anywhere.

Kevin will never understand.

My text goes off, and it’s Jinger.

How was the shoot today, cutie?

I sigh, figuring the starlet at the center of Casualty Records is as good a distraction as any.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Kevin.” I wave him off as I stroll through the door.

“Bright and early!” he calls out after me.

I slowly amble my way through the hallway to my Camaro.

Most of the guys on the label have fancy as shit cars, me included.

Goes along with the “image” Casualty wants me to uphold.

Though I prefer taking the Lexus, I try to at least take out the flashy one every now and then to try and help myself remember what I’ve accomplished.

You know, the usual.

I text her back.

I lean against my car, watching the bubbles pop up as I wait for her reply.

Jinger is one of those personalities that you either love, or you hate.

The fact she’s probably slept with most of the guys on the label at one point or another—save for Felix, Mateo, and the new kids on the label, Heart Killer —usually sets people off.

But to be honest, that’s why I like Jinger.

Because she doesn’t give a shit what people think or say about her.

She just does what she wants, and I think that’s admirable.

I bet you killed it as always!

Her enthusiasm is kind of endearing even if it’s drenched in flirtation.

But I don’t take her flirting to heart.

Jinger flirts with everyone.

She’s like the human equivalent of a margarita meets Bubbles from the PowerPuff Girls.

Yeah, well, hopefully this satisfies the label, because I’m over this whole “Sexy Geo” thing the label keeps shoving down my throat.

Jinger texts back almost instantly.

I think you’re plenty sexy, Geo.

I run a hand through my hair as her words settle on me.

It’s not like it’s the first time Jinger’s said as much.

She tells me all the time, like if she says it enough I’ll believe her.

Thanks, but I think we both know who’s the sexy starlet here, J.

It’s true.

While I may at least have my big cross tattoo and a sculpted body, my face isn’t quite on par with the rest of me.

I can barely grow a fucking beard at thirty-nine, which is embarrassing as fuck.

But Jinger is the total package, a full on knockout who’s probably plastered all over teenage bedrooms across the nation.

But I’ve never felt attracted to Jinger in that way.

Still, you’d have to be blind not to know she’s hot as hell.

I run a hand over my face, feeling like an absolute grump.

I’m sorry, I’m just in a funk today, J.

Jinger sends me back a ‘k’ text, and that’s that.

I stare at the black shimmer of my Camaro, my reflection glinting in the sun.

My image stands out, my dark hair blowing in the wind.

I can see the faint ink through my white tank top, the definition in my arms.

It’s me, but it isn’t.

In so many ways, I feel like I’m still the same awkward guy I was over a decade ago; before the tattoo, before the body, before the fame.

I sigh in exasperation.

With the way I feel right now, maybe a night out with my friends is exactly what I need to get out of this mood.

Because for the first time in ten years, as I look at myself, I don’t know the man looking back at me.