Page 1 of Wild Stars (Rock His World #2)

CHAPTER 1

Dare

I hate interviews.

I know, I know, no one really likes them, but I’ve never been good with a camera in my face asking me personal questions, despite the fact I perform for people all the time.

My manager, Penny, tells me I’ll get better with them over time, that I need to give myself the chance to “acclimate” to everything. That I need to be confident in my talent and myself.

But I find it hard to channel the visage of a successful, rich rockstar when I’m still living in a three-bedroom townhouse with my brother and bandmates, and living on ramen and cinnamon rolls. Not in a giant house that magazines do fucking spreads on, like literally any of my label mates, or like the owner of this damn Sylvestro mansion.

Thank God, this place will be lit soon enough, though, once I get enough liquor in my system.

If only they actually put a decent amount of alcohol in these fruity drinks they’re serving here. Fucking cheap ass motherfuckers.

Richie, my brother and bassist, takes a drag of his joint, the smoke blowing in my face.

I’ve had at least six drinks thus far, and I still feel like a ball of nerves.

I kind of wish Felix—aka the headliner of the Pillars of Rock tour—wasn’t such a grumpy Mcgrumpy-pants earlier when I tried to talk to him, but I guess I’d be pissed, too, if my drummer up and left right at the start of rehearsals.

Still, the guy could have been a little nicer. I brought him a drink as a peace offering!

“Can you even smoke that in here?” I ask, sipping my sugary drink.

Seriously, they could’ve added more tequila to this.

Richie shrugs as Ines mindlessly scrolls his phone while Spike keeps trying—and failing—to flirt with Jinger Holloway.

Seriously, dude, she’s not into you even a little bit. Way out of your league.

“No one’s said otherwise,” Richie replies, blowing a ring of smoke at me.

I wave through it. I’ve never been much into the whole smoking thing, mostly because I hate the smell of smoke, period.

Which is why I’d much rather down a good drink to relax my nerves, but this shit isn’t doing it.

I glance around, wondering if any of my label mates might have something with a little more punch to soothe my brain goblins, when Penny steps into my view.

“Don’t even think about it, Wylde,” she snaps, as if she can somehow read my mind.

“I wasn’t thinking...”

Richie lets out a laugh, and Penny rolls her eyes. “That’s obvious.”

I scowl as I drain my drink, glaring at her.

Like us, Penny is new blood for Casualty Records. But then again, I guess being the newest act signed to the label, it makes sense we don’t have a big shot manager yet, like Felix Hart does, or even Mateo and Hailee Starr. Hell, we’re practically one-hit wonders, and I’m dying to release our next song, Wild Star, but it’s not quite... there yet.

In fact, it’s barely there at all, if I’m being honest, which is why I’m so nervous. This tour is huge for us, but if we don’t come up with something soon...

Well, I don’t want to think about what could happen, not just to me, but to the rest of my bandmates, if we don’t knock our next release out of the park.

“All right, boys, it’s show time,” Penny states as she straightens my collar, wiping the corners of my mouth with her thumb like I’m a five-year-old.

I swat at her playfully, but she remains stoic and focused, like I’m giving a presidential speech instead of saying a few choice words about our tour and where everyone can buy tickets.

Her hazel eyes peer at me from over her oversized round glasses, and with her dark hair, thick with red streaks and feathers, she looks like a deranged librarian.

How the hell she ended up with a job managing Heart Killer is beyond me, but I’ll take her over pink-faced Lou any day.

At least she has good tits.

Richie puts out his joint in the nearest potted plant as Ines and Spike come to line up next to me. Penny gets us lined up and ready while we watch the press settle.

My nerves are frayed, and knowing I have to talk to people only makes me more anxious, but I don’t have time to focus on my flipping stomach, or my dry throat, not when the host announces my name.

Fuck me.

* * *

The room is spinning, but that is the way I like it.

At least when the world is moving, I feel still.

Though I keep running over my dumb fucking speech, or lack thereof.

It was like the tiny creatures who run my brain left my body completely. Thank God Richie stepped in and smoothed everything over, but the damage was already done.

I’d made a damn ass of myself, and I made my band look like a bunch of fucking idiots.

But if there’s one thing I do know about bad press, it only lasts so long until the next awful water cooler event comes along.

Which is probably why I thought getting wasted and dancing on the kitchen table in the Sylvestro mansion was a good idea ten minutes ago, but now, as my stomach throws a party of its own, I’m wondering if it really was.

I jump down from the table, nearly taking out Jinger, who has the audacity to complain. I can hear Spike, but I can’t discern what he’s saying, and instead, I wave him off, grumbling to him as I go in search of a bathroom to puke my guts out.

I really shouldn’t have had that last drink, or whatever it was that Jinger gave me after my disaster interview.

Or the spoonful of caviar Ines dared me to eat. It tasted gross as fuck.

I cling to the banister, the bright lights of the chandelier making my vision blur. I blindly walk along the hall, shielding my eyes from the overhead light, feeling for a door.

When I arrived earlier, I scoped out the place first, so I know I have to be close to a bathroom.

My hand settles on a knob, and I all but fall into the space, onto plush carpet.

Not a bathroom, but this carpet is soft...

“What the actual fuck?” a steely, gravelly voice cuts through my brain fog as I curl into the carpet, stroking the fibers between my fingers.

I look up to see none other than Mateo Starr, one half of my favorite band, Mage Of Mercy .

Like Felix, Mateo is one of the top artists on the label, despite having been on a musical hiatus for the last five years.

But he’s way hotter than Felix...

Dark gray-blue eyes stare at me as some strands of dark brown hair fall in his eyes haphazardly. Combined with his perfectly shaped lips, impeccable jawline, and his damn near perfect muscles with those badass star tattoos, he’s a fucking twenty on a scale of one to ten.

A halo of light erupts around his head, and I swear, I can see cartoon angels and demons jumping around on his shoulders.

“Heyyy Matty...” I slur.

He frowns at me as he nudges me in the side. “What the fuck did you take?” he asks, his voice a deep growl. “And don’t call me Matty.”

I pet the carpet, stroking its soft, plush fibers as I try to bury myself in it. It doesn’t smell as pretty as it looks and I wrinkle my nose.

“I... don’t... uh... I had some dr... drinks, and then J... Jinger...”

“Fucking Jinger,” he growls as he nudges me in my stomach. “Get up,” he orders, and every bone in my body feels like it turns to mush.

I look up at him, his dark hair hanging in his steely gray-blue eyes. He looks like a fucking demon.

A demon with immaculately defined biceps that sports constellation tattoos that make the veins in his arms stand out all the more.

I grew up with this guy’s posters on my wall...

Fuuuck he’s so much hotter in person.

“Soft...” I murmur as I rub my face in the damn carpet, and then I feel it.

The distinct impulse.

Before I can even grasp what’s happening, strong arms pick me up. My legs wobble as an arm settles around my waist—which definitely isn’t as trim as Matty’s. His fingers sink into my squishy flesh beneath my shirt, and he pushes me forward.

“Move your fucking legs, Dare. Christ.”

Matty’s voice is deep and sexy.

Like Batman.

I don’t know what he’s going on about. I can’t even feel my fucking legs, but what I can feel is the onset of a heave coming, and the sweats.

Fuck.

My entire body collapses on the ground and Matty curses behind me.

I wretch uncontrollably into a trash can thrust into my face. My vision blurs as I vomit my entire night up.

I fall back when I’m done, on a cold, hard floor. I notice it is no longer carpet, but tile. White, pristine, marble.

I groan as I stare at the ceiling, at the bright white light, catching my breath.

Matty’s dark voice cursing me is the last thing I hear.