Page 1 of Oops Baby for the Rockstar (Oops Baby #2)

One

Tamsin

T hree months ago

I’ve always had a reckless streak. Growing up the way I did, squeezed into a sagging trailer with my mom and her guy of the week, praying for space and a chance to breathe—it messes with your head. Leaves a mark.

People go one of two ways after a childhood like that, one filled with empty beer bottles and pounding music.

Either you curl in on yourself, talk in whispers, try to take up even less space in the hope that no trouble comes your way…

or you get mad. Get reckless. You start to wonder, what’s the worst that could happen? What could be worse than this ?

It’s thinking like that which got my ass on an overnight bus out of state. Leaving that awful trailer behind me forever.

It’s thinking like that which got me working twelve, fourteen, sometimes sixteen hour shifts on the Wishbone cross country tour, slicking up my skin with sweat and grime as I helped unload and repack trucks of sound equipment all night and into the next morning.

Dog tired and barely scraping by, but happy for the first time in my life. Free.

And it’s thinking like that which gets me in the biggest trouble of all, when a dropped VIP pass to meet the band backstage blows against my boot in a venue parking lot one night.

The crowds are already packed inside, screaming at the tops of their lungs, the music throbbing through the concrete beneath my feet.

I look down, squint at the pass, try to kick it off for a second…

then stop, reckless thoughts suddenly simmering away in my head.

Spots of rain mist my cheeks as I stand there. Not enough to wash away the grime, but enough to wake me up. To make me feel all jittery with excess energy.

Why not? I think. What’s the worst thing that could happen?

Right there in that parking lot, I think about the night off ahead of me, and the fanciest pieces of second hand clothing in my bag on the crew bus, and the fact that I’ve never once even met the band I’ve been working for over the past few months.

I think about all the women in the crowd screaming themselves hoarse for the band, desperate for just a glance in their direction. I think about the tour posters, and the way my heart stutters each time I glimpse one, with the lead singer’s dark eyes staring clean into my soul.

And I think about the fact that tonight, if someone hadn’t dropped this VIP pass, that lead singer, Jett Santana, would be meeting someone else backstage after the show.

Someone with cash to burn on meeting Wishbone.

Someone careless enough about that opportunity that their pass is now rain-sprinkled and flattened against my boot.

“Huh,” I say, back aching from the day’s shift as I bend down to snag the pass. It peels away from my boot easily, flapping in the breeze.

Cheeks warm, I glance around the parking lot, but there’s no one watching me. No one to catch me in the act. No one except the big band poster on the side of one of the trucks, with Jett Santana’s broody gaze following my every move. Making me all flustered, even though I’ve never met the man.

…Yet.

I haven’t met him yet.

But it would be too bad to let a VIP pass go to waste. I mean, it’s not like I’ll ever have that kind of money kicking around, right? This is my chance.

Turning on my heel, I salute the giant Wishbone poster before marching toward the crew bus with its cubby beds and tiny, lukewarm shower. Time to scrub myself clean, and dress myself in something other than a baggy tour t-shirt and holey jeans.

I’m about to meet Wishbone.

My heart beats faster, and I grin up at the cloudy night sky before stepping onto the bus.

* * *

Two hours later, my dark hair is washed, combed and mostly dried, my skin smells like soap, and I’ve sweet-talked my way into borrowing some makeup.

Patty, one of the tour photographers, was lazing on her tiny bed when I got out of the bus shower, flipping through an ancient Us Weekly, and she was all too happy for a project to fill her empty night.

“You’re not taking photos tonight?” I murmur, trying not to move my face too much. Patty purses her lips and shakes her head, the eyeliner pencil steady in her hand.

“Night off.” She doesn’t sound pleased. Guess the crew bus is pretty boring if you’re not used to small, cluttered spaces. For me, it’s like home all over again—but with a better kitchenette and less yelling.

“You could go take photos anyway? Of the band, or like… of anything.”

Patty scoffs and smiles, drawing a careful line of kohl around my other eye. Her own make up is perfect and catlike, even while lounging around the crew bus in her sweats, and her platinum blonde bangs are straighter than a ruler.

“I’m old,” Patty says, even though there’s no way she’s older than, like, thirty. “Old and tired. If they tell me I’ve got a night off, I’m gonna spend that bad boy sprawled on my bed reading trash and eating chocolate.”

“Well, when you put it like that…”

She gives me a chunk of milk chocolate before shooing me off the bus, fully made up with the VIP pass clutched in my hand.

Now I hurry across the giant parking lot, veering around potholes and the biggest puddles of water.

It still isn’t raining hard, only spitting cold drops, but somehow puddles have sprung up while I was primping and preening.

As the wind blows against my bare arms, I shiver and tug at the hem of my red t-shirt dress.

Even belted around the waist, the wind keeps lifting the skirt and chilling me everywhere.

This dress hadn’t seemed all that reckless in the thrift store when I bought it, but now my cheeks burn with how exposed I feel. Bare legs and plain blue cotton panties underneath a skirt that keeps lifting.

Too late to turn back now.

The sky is dark overhead, with clouds covering all the stars.

Doesn’t matter. The lights from the stadium up ahead are dazzling, and the music is loud enough to rattle my teeth.

This song is hard and fast and urgent, the kind of song you go for an antsy run to, the kind that makes your heart beat faster trying to keep up.

It’s easy to slip inside the venue. I had all these excuses lined up and ready on my tongue, all these plans for how I was gonna sweet talk my way inside without a proper ticket, but I don’t even need them.

The main entrance is guarded, sure, with two security guards smoking cigarettes and looking bored, but as I dart across the parking lot, I spot the back loading bay we’ve been using all morning.

It’s shadowed, out of sight, with an extra door that leads inside. All morning, that door was kept unlocked to help us unload gear faster. What are the chances it’s still unlocked?

Pretty damn high , I think to myself as the door swings open easily under my palm. It creaks on its hinges, but the sound is swallowed up by the noise from the band.

With one last guilty glance over my shoulder, I slip inside.

* * *

“This is Zeke,” a stern woman in a black blazer over ripped jeans says, nodding as I shake the band member’s hand. He gives me a lopsided smile, but his eyes are already drifting over my shoulder to the other guests with VIP passes. “This is Danny, and this is Rocco.”

Handshake, handshake. It’s surreal seeing the members of Wishbone up close and in the flesh, especially after seeing their pictures on all the sides of the trucks.

Like meeting a character from a TV show in real life.

But they really are flesh and blood, with warm, callused hands that shake mine.

Rocco, the drummer, even gives my hand a cheeky squeeze, winking when I meet his eye.

“And this is Jett.”

The air empties out from my lungs as the lead singer steps forward.

He’s as handsome in person as he is on that poster—more so, even, because he’s a bit rougher around the edges.

Less photoshop-smooth. His black hair is rumpled, sticking up from where he’s been shoving his hands through it on stage, and his guy-liner has smudged. Somehow, it only makes him look hotter.

“H-hi.” My voice trembles as I shake Jett’s hand. It’s so much bigger than mine, enveloping my fingers, but my jittery insides settle as soon as his skin touches mine. An alien sensation sweeps through my chest, something I’ve never, ever felt before in all my twenty one years of life.

I feel… safe.

My heart pounds even harder, but slows down to a steady beat.

“Do you want to take a photo?” the woman asks, her tone brisk. The little badge on her lapel says Artist Liaison. “Your pass allows for three group or individual photos, all without bodily contact and all requiring my prior approval before you disseminate them on your channels.”

Before I what them on my what ?

“No photos.” I shake my head, still dazed by the fact that Jett Santana is holding my hand, pumping it slowly in the world’s longest handshake.

Does he know we’re still touching? Is he on autopilot, his mind elsewhere, or did he get that same settled feeling when our hands joined? “I forgot my phone.”

Technically not a lie, though even if I did remember my phone, that ancient Nokia brick doesn’t have a camera. And I’m not on any channels. I’m a broke-ass runaway who lives on a cubby bed and unloads trucks of sound equipment for a living, what about that is glamorous enough to put online?

Besides, I grew up with zero privacy. Now that I’ve finally left that trailer, as far as I’m concerned, my life is no one else’s damn business.

“Alright.” The woman gives a tight smile, and gestures for the band members to move along to the next VIP guest in line. “Enjoy the after party in the green room. The band will join everyone there shortly.”

“O-okay. Thank you.”

Zeke, Danny, Rocco and the Artist Liaison woman all move along to the next guests in line: a middle aged guy and his sulky teenage daughter. The dad gives a great, booming laugh at something Zeke said, and the daughter cringes and rolls her eyes.

Doesn’t she know how lucky she is to have a parent like that? A father who cares?

“See, not everyone is thrilled to meet us.” Jett finally drops my hand, his dark eyes sparkling with humor. I’ve always thought his eyes were black or really, really dark brown, but up close I can see they’re slate gray. The color of a thundercloud.

I wet my lips, still star-struck by the Jett Santana. “Well, I am.”

It’s true, too. Would I ever spend money on something like this? Nope. Not after a childhood of scrimping for every cent. But am I loving every awkward second? You bet. These guys are legends, and they’re somehow even more impressive up close.

Jett smiles. “Maybe I’ll see you in the green room, uh…?”

“Tamsin.”

Jett grins wider, and the way he says my name—it’s like he’s savoring something delicious. “ Tamsin . I’ll come find you, okay? Don’t go hiding from me.”

I bite my lip, heart thudding, and shake my head. “I won’t.”