The Complete Groupie Trilogy Read online

  The Complete Groupie Trilogy

  By

  Ginger Voight

  ©2013

  Acknowledgements:

  Whenever I sat down to write the first book, “Groupie,” I had no idea what kind of roller coaster I had just strapped myself into. I had an idea of what I wanted to do with the story, but these characters definitely had a mind of their own. They told their own story; I was often just the transcriber.

  I really, truly didn’t expect for it to find the kind of audience it did. I knew I had broken a lot of rules to make this story happen. It was a big risk, and I knew I was playing with fire. I expected criticism and a lot of it.

  But something remarkable happened along the way. People found the book without my really having to market it. I honestly didn’t know how to market it. Every risk I took felt like a flaw that would drive the audience away in droves. In many ways, I was just like Andy. I didn’t expect people to fall in love with these characters and their crazy story like I did.

  Imagine my surprise when people not only read it, but loved it. It became the most reviewed book I published, with an audience that was clamoring for more. Their passion was like a stone thrown into a pond. The ripples carried the story outward into the world. Bloggers reviewed it, the audience grew and before I knew it Andy, Vanni and Graham had pulled me out into the spotlight with them.

  It made one of my biggest dreams come true, and gave me a happily ever after I never expected.

  So I owe my sincerest thanks to you, the reader. You’re here because you care about this story and my nutty, mixed-up characters. You’re here because you trusted me all along this journey, to get you where you wanted to go.

  It was a responsibility I took very seriously as I wrote “Mogul.” And I truly hope you enjoy it as our ride finally pulls back into the station.

  My deepest gratitude,

  GV

  Special thanks to:

  Maryse’s Book Blog (and all the readers who turned Maryse onto the story)

  The Groupie/Rock Star Group on Facebook

  The Book Broads on Facebook

  Brandee’s Book Endings

  My tireless, enthusiastic and insightful beta readers: Jeff, Kim, Tess and Katrin

  Shirley Ozment and Sarah Ashcroft Bohlander (y’all know why)

  Hal Sparks, (The) Brian Crow and Lance Tamanaha of Zero 1– who all make me cool by association.

  Disclaimer:

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  BOOK 1

  GROUPIE

  Philadelphia – June 17, 2010

  The sting of antiseptic crawled up my nose and roused me from the deep sleep, one that had wrapped itself around me like a tight cocoon. It felt as though the darkness struggled to hang onto me as much as I fought to get out from under it. But little by little the harsh bright light of the hospital room forced its way into my consciousness.

  I blinked awake in confusion. Disjointed fragments of memory or fantasy rattled around in my unconscious mind, kind of like a kaleidoscope that couldn’t quite come together. Was I dreaming? Was this a hallucination? It seemed I remembered everything and nothing all at once. My stomach lurched as I tried to piece together the bloody, horrific scene that lingered just on the outskirts of my memory, something that felt vivid enough to be real and recent, but muffled enough to dance around my consciousness like a really bad dream.

  I strained to remember as I surveyed the tiny room in which I lay, attached to an IV and a monitor that rhythmically beeped along with each strong, steady heartbeat. It was undeniably soothing, considering I couldn’t feel most of my body. This was thanks in no small part to the influence of heavy drugs I was probably under. I glanced down at the thin hospital gown that covered my chest, expecting instead to see a load of bricks stacked there pinning me to the bed.

  I squeezed my eyes shut as it all came back to me in a flash – like a gunshot. I lay there on the concrete next to him, watching the blood pump from the wound in his stomach. At least I think it was his stomach.

  It might not have even been his wound.

  I wanted to feel around my body for a bandage but my fingers didn’t want to move. My arms felt like dead weight on either side of me. The mystery remained if I had been injured by gunfire or just the weight of his body falling on top of me and sending us both to the ground.

  But it was his blood. And I couldn’t stop it from spilling from his body, though I surely did try. I screamed at him to stay awake as the loud wail of the ambulance grew closer, but those beautiful brown eyes fluttered closed with a faint whisper of his breath.

  My throat threatened to close in on me as I squeezed my eyes and prayed for the blackness to return… to engulf me… to take away this pain that had suddenly made itself at home in the hollow of my chest.

  All I wanted in that moment was to forget. To go back in time and erase an unbalanced relationship that had been doomed from the start. For his sake, and for mine.

  I may not have been able to avoid falling in love with Giovanni Carnevale.

  The mistake was when I thought I could ever claim him as mine.

  ~Andy~

  I gathered my belongings before the seat belt light had a chance to go off. Having logged more than 100,000 miles in the course of my career as a freelance travel writer, I had the process of boarding and deplaning down to an exact science. This way any time spent in airplanes and through airports was kept to the bare minimum. As I glanced at the rows behind me I instantly knew that would have been at least twenty minutes of my life I would never get back. It may have been only Thursday, but some of the travelers on my plane had already switched into weekend mode.

  Not me. I had places to go, people to see and things to write. And not a one of those things were anywhere remotely close to the Philadelphia International Airport.

  Like clockwork I checked my phone once it had a chance to power on, where I found no less than five text messages from Iris waiting for me. I had to smile when I thought of my exuberant friend. She was in rare form these days, assuring me that she had found The One that was going to launch her out of obscurity an into the jet-setting life she had dreamed about for so long.

  I had heard it before, of course, but that didn’t stop me getting a little curious to meet whomever it was that had her so excited. Iris Kimble was a bit like a highly contagious virus, only what she had you usually wanted. This quality made her excel at her job in public relations.

  It was her enthusiasm that had me book the first flight out of Nashville to Philadelphia when she sent me an email regarding Dreaming in Blue, the newest band she had taken under her wing. I could go anywhere and write anything, so the destination itself was never really an issue. It was what I would find there that got me excited to go, and Iris knew more than anyone that getting in on the ground floor of the Next Big Thing would help me graduate from lowly travel writer to the more glamorous world of entertainment journalism.

  “This is it, Andy,” she had written and I could almost see her sunny smile punctuate her prediction. “Wait until you see them. Until you see him.”

  She sent me the press kit on the band and granted they were all pretty nice eye candy. I had listened to the demo and was reasonably impressed with the sound, but I still had yet to see what Iris was convinced was there. That left me one choice: I had to come and see the band in person for myself.

  Score one for Iris Kimble.

  I was out of my seat as soon as the line started to move. Being a seasoned traveler with no patience I m
ade sure that my seat was toward the front of the plane so I could grab my efficiently packed personal item with one hand and my carry-on with the other. This enabled me to deplane while everyone else was fiddling with their piles of luggage.

  With any luck I’d be among the first to get a taxi and on my way to my hotel while they were still sorting out whose bags were whose at the luggage carousel.

  I was the kind of passenger that never checked luggage. I carried my essential tools in bags that fit neatly in the overhead bin for a quick grab and go. This meant that I learned how to wear five pieces of clothing at least ten different ways, with essential slimming black counting for at least 3/5s of the temporary wardrobe.

  Add a good pair of walking shoes that could double in casual or quasi-formal occasions and I was good to go.

  Despite being a girl, my toiletry needs were few. Some might call me a fresh-faced beauty because I tended to avoid any rigid and extensive beauty regimen. Frankly the scads of mysterious cosmetics left me bewildered so I left makeup to the professionals. It was never worth the bother. I was never what you might call a “guy magnet” so I was perfectly content hiding behind dark framed glasses. Eyeliner, foundation, lipstick and a bit of glittery or shimmery eye shadow generally did the trick, and those fit nicely and neatly inside my satchel.

  When it came to making an impression I usually went low-maintenance and semi-permanent by letting my hair do the talking for me. Since I turned 21, a whole three years ago, my hair had undergone at least five major color changes. Frankly I’m surprised they let me on a plane at all given I stopped looking like the girl on my driver’s license two months after I got the darn thing. I went blond, red, brunette, stark black – I played around more with drastic color changes that could better disguise me than a handful of expensive cosmetics.

  These days I preferred to mix and match colors, so my semi-annual salon appointment just days before afforded me the rather drastic style of dark brown over bright, stop-sign red in a short bob haircut.

  It fit with the rocker vibe I was hoping to tap into this particular trip.

  As designed I was in a taxi by the time Iris called me, nearly beside herself to know if I had landed. “Are you here?” she asked gaily, probably already knowing the answer.

  “I’m here,” I confirmed. “On my way to the hotel, actually.”

  “What does your day look like? I think we can get you some face time with the band at rehearsal before the show tomorrow night.”

  “No can do,” I declined politely. I was, after all, here to work. “I have at least two restaurants to cover so I thought I’d do that today and get it out of the way. I’m only in town until Saturday.”

  “Andy Foster, you are a party pooper,” she said playfully. “But I guess we’ll have to make do. As long as you are at the club tomorrow night with no plans afterwards. I’m putting together a fabulous after-party.”

  I had to smile. “Give me today to work and tomorrow I’m all yours. I promise.”

  “Good. I’ll schedule us some girl time with some shopping and a makeover. How does a massage sound?”

  “Painful,” I answered honestly.

  “Boo,” she responded and I could practically see her stick out her tongue. “I know it offends you greatly to do anything even remotely feminine but trust me. You’ll want to go all out for Giovanni Carnevale.”

  For the hundredth time I wanted to know what was so special about the lead singer of her new band, but I knew if I asked she’d just give me the pat answer I’d have to see him to know. So tomorrow night I’d see him.

  And hopefully I’d know.

  In the meantime I had actual writing to get done, and Mr. Giovanni Carnevale and the realm of rock would just have to wait.

  The next afternoon Iris sent a car to the hotel to pick me up for our girly extravaganza. After ditching Tennessee for the Big Apple, Iris sure had gone from simple country girl to big city socialite with relative ease in the scant five years she had been gone. She had begged me to go with her at the time, but the biggest town I wanted to conquer was Nashville. It was still home, still familiar. And I knew I’d stick out like a sore thumb in Manhattan wearing about thirty-five pounds extra body weight around my average frame. In New York terms that meant I was at least seventy pounds overweight. Most of that could be found in my 42-DD bra and the swell of my well-rounded backside, making me more Mae West than Twiggy. This meant I was always way more popular with men than I’d ever be with women, especially those that valued their size zero dress size as a personal achievement.

  So moving to the fashion capital of the United States? I don’t think so.

  Despite this reticence to take over the big city, I was fairly comfortable with my curves. In fact I found them rather useful. Superficial guys usually didn’t give me a second glance and thus spared me their games and bullshit. The men who did ask me out appreciated my rounded hourglass figure and often treated me like a queen because of it. The kicker? These guys were often better looking and way more charming or successful than the ones that needed something pretty on their arm as their own measure of manhood.

  I had begun to suspect this wasn’t a coincidence.

  So it was all a matter of playing the odds, really. Simply put guys in Tennessee were more appreciative of girls like me. I was never the kind who would order a salad only to proclaim “I’m full,” halfway through. I had no problems eating and drinking alongside the big boys, often throwing it down with good-humored contests that I generally always won… including wrestling matches and tickle fights.

  I was in no way a dainty girly girl, and I liked it that way.

  Despite being told by the media that I’d never get a date if I didn’t lose those pesky extra pounds, weight was never really a factor for me. I ditched trying to find happiness by the scale the very first time a man whistled at the way I wore my jeans. I never had any trouble getting any guy I wanted regardless of the size dress I wore.

  The trick was actually finding one I wanted. I had been infatuated once or twice (I think) but lightning never really struck. So aside from some casual petting, kissing and one fairly extensive love affair my first year of college, my viewpoint on dating sort of mimicked my viewpoint on makeup. Too much hassle and not enough payoff.

  So this afternoon with Iris was more for her than for me, or for any guy I was supposed to impress with the results.

  The way I figured it, the right guy would like me for me, as is, anyway. Otherwise, what was the point?

  The driver took me to a restaurant where I knew immediately I’d be deprived the Philly cheesesteak that I really wanted. Instead I was likely to be forced to sit in front of a skimpy meal I’d have to eat half of and proclaim, “I’m full,” to fit in with Iris and her ilk from The City.

  Hopefully there would be time to stop off and get that cheesesteak before the concert tonight.

  Iris hopped out of her chair with an exuberant squeal the moment she saw me stride across the room. “Andy!”

  I walked into her full-bodied hug. No matter how big city she got there was just something wholesome and country about how Iris greeted people. Made me feel like home wherever it was we were in the world.

  “God, I missed you,” she said in full twang, something she’d never really ditched from her days in Tennessee. She swore that the men in New York found it charming and endearing, but I’m sure that she meant on her. On Iris Kimble just about any trait was charming and endearing. “When are you moving to New York so I can hug you whenever I want to?”

  I laughed. It had been a familiar refrain the last few years, one that no longer even really needed a response. I knew Iris was not hurting for friends, as evidenced by the beautiful blond woman sitting at the table, bestowing upon me a sunny smile. Iris broke apart to make the necessary introductions. “Andy, this is Alana Pendleton. She works with me at Schuster and Beckweth.”

  Another publicist promised to make the day more interesting; I’d get to hear all the gossip that
is not fit to print with no real outlet to make money off of the endeavor.

  At least not yet.

  I reached out a hand, “Andy Foster,” I said as I sat. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you finally,” Alana said with the same dazzling smile. “I’ve heard so many things about you from Iris.”

  “Not everything,” Iris interjected. “I left out the stuff that was illegal, immoral and just plain fun.”

  We all shared a laugh as a young, fit and beautiful boy brought us our menus. I cast a suspicious eye over the top of the page to my friend. “Vegan?” I asked my meat-loving friend. Iris Kimble happened to be the reigning champ at our local barbecue joint for four years running after scarfing the most ribs in a two-hour sitting.

  She just laughed it off. “It’s not a lifestyle change,” she assured. “Alana’s a vegetarian and most guys in the band are either vegan or vegetarian, so…”

  “When in Rome,” I concluded for her. I glanced over the menu and ordered what looked reasonably familiar. I never really met a vegetable I didn’t like so it was calculated risk at best.

  “It’s a shame you couldn’t join us last night,” Iris said as she handed over her menu to the waiter, along with her order. “The band was in rare form. This show is going to be a game-changer.”

  I tried to feign indifference but that was impossible to do with Iris. Her bubbly enthusiasm was infectious, and quite simply I was curious. “How so?”

  “I only got the biggest name in music to come down and check them out.” Her voice dropped conspiratorially. “Jasper Carrington.”

  Even I knew who that was, and I wasn’t in the biz like Iris or Alana. Jasper owned one of the biggest record labels in America, and his superstar wife had charted four top-ten singles in the last year alone. This was, indeed, a big deal. I was more grateful than ever that Iris thought to include me. If this band took off, my career as a freelance journalist could as well.