Hers

By Corri Lee

Rock starlet, Amelia Marsh, is notorious for her beauty and powerful singing voice. Unfortunately, she is also well known for being unable to commit to anything other than her band, 'The Bystander Effect'. The ghosts of her childhood haunt her daily, and have forced her to place certain rules over her life; 'No boyfriends, no groupies'.

That's worked for her for a long time. Being self-sufficient and independent gave the twenty-two year old songstress back the control she was once deprived of.
That's all going to go to hell the moment she meets CJ Pearce.

In this combination edition of 'I'm With The Band' and 'All My Demons', read the tale of her struggle to relinquish command and learn to be commanded in one place. From the moment their eyes meet, to the second her cruel past releases it's grip on her soul...
Laugh, love and meet her halfway.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Corri Lee
• Release date: Nov 14, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310291616

Corri Lee

Self-publishing author and self-confessed fantasist, I vent my ideas into novels that I strive to make emotionally provocative and addictive. Music is referenced heavily and is a huge influence in the way I write. Those who know me well will see the pieces of my personality that I put into my words. Those who don't will see outrageous story lines, gut wrenching twists, raunchy love affairs, and heart stopping romance.Jaws will drop. Eyes will burn. Cheeks will blush. Pages will turn. If just one of those reactions is evoked from every reader, then I know that my time isn't wasted.I write in the hope that my work will be enjoyed and the word will spread. Not for the *unlikely* financial gain, but for the knowledge of knowing that I made a mark on the world by just 'being'.

Book preview

Life has been hard on me.

You’d never guess it from the outside, but while I may have burst into the world with the highest of hopes, best of intentions and the wildest of dreams, I have seen things that others shouldn’t, and some never will.

Lucky them.

My life stopped being about flaunting my genealogy and skills, and became about survival.

I think to some degree, I was robbed of my life. I took the privileges I had for granted and never realised just how precious they were until they were brutally ripped away from me.

I didn’t try hard enough and I never dug in my heels enough to come out and say ‘stop’.

I have to carry that guilt around with me forever, as well as the echoes that my memories leave behind.

I have new privileges now—legions of loyal followers and stacks upon stacks of money.

I am talented and I am huge for it but the fans don’t see what lies beneath.

Nobody knows what lies latent beneath my rock hard exterior.

I am young and naïve. I try to pretend that I’m this untouchable and confident dare devil, but I’m not. Inside,

I’m still that fifteen year old, staring at my bed numbly, the haze of my cheap vodka binge dulled by my life falling apart.

I am weak and I am afraid.

Afraid of what people think is ‘normal’.

Afraid to be really seen.

Afraid of the truth.

Afraid of living.

Nobody knows what’s hiding inside me.

Nobody can ever know.

I

He's looking at you.

Again? Really?

Transfixed. It's positively repulsive.

I glance up from my dissertation and catch sight of that guy again, shaking my head piteously. That's the third time this week, right? Not cool; star crossed fans are exactly what I come here to avoid. Not only the third time today, but again for the thousandth time since he clocked me two months ago. If I wasn’t so used to it, I’d be freaked out.

Meredith glances back over in his direction and joins my head shaking. The sad thing is that he knows that you know that he's staring. He's playing on it.

I type out my final sentence and lean back triumphantly. Against all the odds, I can claim my extremely well-earned Bachelor's Degree in Sociology, and stick my fingers up at the university advisers who said I couldn't do it while maintaining a musical career. Meredith thoughtfully leans over and hits 'save' on my screen to stop me from repeating the foolish act of carelessness that nearly lost me my Psychology BSc.

That's it. I'm done with uni. No more. Two degrees is more than enough considering I’ll never actually use them.

Are you sure you don't want an MD and a PhD? You'd walk it. I roll my eyes at her, my wonderful raven haired, Asian, pain in the arse best friend. I know that she’s considering her MD just so that she can claim higher bragging rights—nothing to do with an intellectual tendency to excel in the science of ‘the mind’.

I don't want one, you know that. I'd get mistaken for a bad white rapper. She chuckles throatily at me and twists a strand of her raven bob around her finger. Not really sure why she persistently flirts with me, she knows that I’m sold.

So what are you going to do about the hanger on? He's still looking at you.

Of course he's still looking. I casually glance back in his direction and contemplate my options. Reel him in or cut him loose. Not so bothered either way. And as he doesn't strike me as a stalker— I don't think he's going to be much of a problem, seeing as we're under no obligation to come back here unless I pick a post-grad course. Which I won’t.

Aren't you even slightly tempted to have a little fun at his expense? When was the last time you got laid? Willing her to shut up, I raise an eyebrow. Admittedly, I am aware that it’s been what she would classify as ‘a long time’, but I don’t need reminding.

I turn and absorb as much of his image as I can from this distance. Dark haired, okay. Looks kind of lean, I guess, definitely not muscular. I can't see his eyes from here, which would help, and there's not a trace of a single tattoo poking from the arms of that Halo 3 t-shirt. He looks a bit normal for my tastes, Mer. And you know I'm not in the market for a groupie. She nudges me playfully and looks as though she might be taking pity on him. That's unusual. Pity doesn't often occur in her emotional repertoire.

Just throw him a complimentary bone then if he doesn't stand a cat's chance in hell of getting under you. I've seen you flirt from this distance before. Ah, all right, I'll indulge her wicked streak just this once.

I angle my chair around to lean one elbow on the table and run the connected hand through a section of my hair. Christ, it's a battle, I really need a trim. I let my eyes travel leisurely around the library and eventually lock on his gaze. He looks around for a moment before he realises that it’s him I'm looking at, and then mimics my pose. Hmm, cocky. He flashes me a small smile and I return the favour. I'm amazed by how intense his gaze is, I'm actually the one hooked and being reeled in.

Go on, baby doll. Finish him off. Meredith's goading is the wake-up call I need to rouse me from my daydream. I narrow my eyes slightly, letting my tongue lick my top lip and then bite the bottom. She descends into stifled laughter as his jaw drops and he looks like he's going to expire. He visibly inhales a wrenching breath and is disturbed from his thoughts by the guy next to him knocking a can of Dr. Pepper on the floor. I wonder if he saw my taunt, too.

The eye contact breaks and I grin to myself. I like having the power to do that to people but it always baffles me why they can idolise me across rooms and allow themselves to be so affected by me but never actually approach me. I'm famous and loaded, but I'm not made of stone. 

Meredith leans over and hits 'print' on my screen, waving me off towards the printer with a flick of her hand. Jesus, over fifty pages—I am a machine. But this printer is fucking ancient and I'm going to be here for a lifetime. I glance back over at her and her jaw is on the table. I take a step back and I immediately understand why. 

Mr. All Eyes and No Action is standing behind me at the next printer. He didn't even have a laptop, what the hell? My teasing appears to have kicked him into action. I wasn't prepared for this. 

Whatever. I've had enough crazy groupies and stalkers to know how to look after myself.

He leans against the wall next to the printer and is quite clearly sizing me up. How rude. So I reciprocate his bad manners and see exactly what I'm dealing with, starting from the bottom up. 

DC trainers, fine. Baggy jeans that are barely covering the waist band of his CK boxers, fair enough. Halo 3 t-shirt, so he's a video-game geek. No visible tattoos, that's almost a deal breaker for me, but his wrists are covered with wooden beaded surfer bracelets and festival wristbands. I recognise Download, V and Sonisphere having played at all three and I have to say that this works to his advantage. But I don't know the others so they must be tame pop festivals.

And then I reach his face and I'm inexplicably bowled over. He's got the most soul exploring camel lashed green eyes that I've ever seen and they're burning into me. There's a five, maybe six millimetre black stretcher plug in his left ear and it's all the more obvious for his side swept dark brown fringe flecked with copper strands. He's grungy but not grimy, just the type I go for. I could do him some serious damage. 

I quickly glance back at Meredith and she's obviously impressed by her marginally closer view because she's giving me that 'you know you want to look'. I glance down at my half printed dissertation and get my stage face on. That's obviously what he's here for.

Yes? His nostrils flare a fraction, like he's surprised that I spoke.

You look familiar. His voice is silky smooth and impassive, like he doesn't even care that I'm there.

I should imagine I do when you've been eyeballing me for the past two months. He splits into a smile and suddenly that hard ass exterior cracks a little into something boyish. He raises an arm and scratches the nape of his neck. Hmm, I want to bite that neck. Wait, what?

Sorry, I have been a bit tactless, but I don't usually go for girls like you. Girls like me? What the hell!

I beg your pardon?

You know, boyfriend cut jeans, over-sized hoodies pulled up over your head to hide the fact you're self-conscious. I raise an eyebrow at him and put a hand on my hip, thinking more about breaking his neck than biting it. What an arsehole, it's obvious that I dress like a bum so I don't get hassled on campus.

You're way off base. Why the hell did I write such a long dissertation? I look down at the printer’s display and roll my eyes. Out of paper—you've got to be joking, and of course Mr. All Mouth And No Trousers here is right in front of the paper drawer. 

I turn back and let my eyes bore into him until he moves out of the way. I'm horrified by his proximity when he leans down with me and lets that shocking green gaze linger over the tattoos on the backs of my hands. How can he possibly look so surprised? I’m notorious for my ink.

I straighten myself out and set the printer back into motion, excruciatingly aware of his persistent presence.

Let me take you for coffee. His request hits me like a bolt out of the blue.

If I'm not your type, why the hell would you take me for coffee? He shrugs at me with his irritating impassiveness, and against all my better judgement, I'm starting to view him as a challenge. I don't have a good reputation with challenges, I tend to attack them with a ferocity comparably only to starving panthers circling a steak. Fine. One coffee. I can't believe I just said that. 

I pull what's printed of my dissertation off the printer and march back to Meredith.

Uh oh. She shakes her head. I've seen that look before. He's thrown down some sort of gauntlet, hasn't he? I adore this girl's amazing understanding of the way my mind works.

Coffee, apparently. I'll make it quick. She bids me farewell with one of her sloe eyed winks and ensures me that she'll track my phone if I'm gone too long. I stride back to Mr. Challenging, pinning my hair up and hiding my face with a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses, and wave a hand. After you then. 

For the first time I see a hint of nervousness and it cheers me up to no end.

Now?

I'm not coming back on campus after today; I've done my time. It's now or never. I stride off to the door and he follows, hot on my heels, just as it should be.

Before I know it, I'm stood outside McDonalds in Birmingham City Centre and I don't know whether to laugh or cry. McDonalds, seriously?

He holds a hand out to the doorway and raises an eyebrow. Sure, you've seen the adverts, right? I shake my head at him in disbelief, hide at a table in the furthest corner from the entrance and keep my head low. I don't think he appreciates the humiliation that I'd face if I got caught sitting in here. 

He finds me and puts a cardboard cup of coffee down in front of me with a handful of sugar and milk sachets. Fucking hell, he could have at least taken me to Starbucks. Aren't you going to take those off? I look at him poisonously over the rim of the aviators and make it perfectly clear that no, I won't be removing them. His nostrils flare again and he removes the plastic lid from the coffee cup—my coffee cup—like I’m a child who can’t safely handle hot beverages without ending up with third degree burns. I'm CJ Pearce, by the way. Oh, it has a name. 

I lean back in my seat and blow on the steam spouting from my coffee. I don’t do milk and sugar, Daddy tells me I’m sweet enough. Sycophant.

Amelia Marsh BSc. And I can see the cogs starting to grind in his head. Yes, we're finally starting to make a realisation that this is not my usual haunt, aren’t we?

If you already have a BSc, why have you just printed a dissertation? Okay, wrong realisation.

Because I've done another degree?

Why in hell would you do that?

Because I can. My retort seems to effectively silence him for a while—he's quite clearly having to thoughtfully plan out his conversation. Poor guy, I should cut him some slack. What's your major? His green eyes stare up at me but their intensity is dulled by my shades.

Sociology. Duh, he’s been eyeballing you during lectures, remember? I think McDonalds is making me stupid.

No shit, mine, too. My other degree is in Psychology. And again he's silenced, probably intimidated by my intelligence. I glance back at his wrists. Music fan? This is so forced…

Yeah, sure. I love festivals, they bring out the animal in me. Interesting. How about you, what do you listen to?

I'm really having to resist the urge to laugh at him. Rock, mainly. I have a specific interest in that genre. 

My torture is interrupted by my phone ringing. Am I ever glad of the cavalry? Sorry, I need to take this. I turn my side to him and answer the call. Amelia Marsh.

"Hey baby doll, we have a problem." Oh jeez, if Meredith ever calls and says there a problem, I can guarantee that she's not exaggerating. She doesn’t do problems. Puzzles, diversions, deterrents; yes. Problems; no.

Uh oh, what's wrong?

Ryan has broken his foot skateboarding. We have no driver.

That's not funny. Please tell me you're joking. She doesn’t do jokes either, but I live in hope.

"I'm not joking, Ams. It's lucky that we're gigging in town tonight but come Friday, we are screwed." ‘Screwed’ has an upper inflection that tells me that she’s trying to drown out her frantic concern with humour. And most likely vodka.

Shit, Meredith, I'll make some calls. She hangs up. I rest my phone against my forehead in frustration. My 'making some calls' means I have to phone my dad, and if I phone my dad—

Is there something wrong? Anything I can do to help? I'd almost forgotten about the poor company I was sat with in a poor setting.

I snicker at him. Not unless you know someone who can drive a tour bus. 

He shrugs at me and sips his coffee. When? I drive. I'm glad he can't see me eyeing him warily behind these shades because I am seriously considering his offer. We are screwed without a ride into Manchester and then beyond. 

I run my tongue over my teeth awkwardly. Starting Friday. But we have another sixteen gigs going up to Scotland and back down to Plymouth, and you have uni.

I can email my work in. I'm free until further notice. He reaches over boldly, takes my phone from my hand and starts to programme his number into my contact list. Think about it and give me a call. I look him up and down again and shake my head. He doesn't stand a chance of keeping up with us. He looks like a sweet little momma’s boy who gets woke up with a cuppa every morning.

Retrieving my phone from his hand, I have to ask on the off-chance. Have you ever hung out with musicians before? I mean ‘real’ musicians? It's pretty intense.

I can handle intense. I have my serious doubts but we really need a driver. I hate calling my dad for help—it just makes it look like I'm piggybacking off his career. I got to where I am on my own damned merits.

I glance down at the time and swear out loud. I'm sorry, I have to bail. I have a sound check at 5pm.

You have a gig tonight? Perceptive.

Yeah, we're playing at the O2 Academy. 

All of a sudden, I'm witnessing this guy's face light up like a Christmas tree. The Bystander gig.

I nod and pick up my coffee. If you really think you're up for driving the bus, drop by and see how we roll. Just tell the security team you're with me. I shoot him an awkward smile and make a hasty retreat from Mc-fucking-Donald's.

II

I can’t even begin to articulate my rage. We set aside an hour for a sound check and so far we’ve been here for ninety minutes because some idiot boy who looks like he’s fresh off the playground has been let loose to screw around with our equipment. I can hear Plato berating the shit out of him while our roadies take over the technical side. Seeing the baby faced little twat scarper out of the building makes me feel marginally better but frankly, I’m still seeing red here, and it’s not being cured any by Meredith ribbing me over my coffee date.

McDonalds, seriously? What’s wrong with Starbucks?

I know, right? That’s exactly what I thought. Even Costa would have done but fucking McDonalds. I can see the gossip blogs now; ‘The Bystander Effect’s Amelia Marsh shares fries with mystery male in fast food chain’. Chase would have a field day off something like that. Erek laughs behind me and he thinks that I can’t hear, but a simple one fingered gesture assures him that I can.

So did you call your dad? I flash Meredith an innocent, apologetic smile—she knows full well how much I hate drafting in my dad’s goons. Call him in the morning, please. We are so beyond fucked without a driver. Plato waves down at us and she slings the strap of her giant red beast of a bass guitar over her neck. So did you get any? 

I can’t resist, I have to flash her the look I reserve for her most intensely stupid comments. ‘Amelia Marsh indulges in quickie and fries with mystery male in fast food chain?’ Honestly, Meredith, I’m not set to self-destruct. Not today anyway. 

Plato appears by my side and takes his guitar from my hand with a twinkle in his eye that tells me Meredith has already given them the background of this… this. But he’s cute though, right?

I dunno, he’s got the classic grungy emo look about him and has a pretty sexy pair of peepers, but I didn’t see any tattoos.

He inhales sharply and shakes his head. Ouch, deal breaker. 

I nod and turn to the microphone as the roadie shouts from the sound desk. Visible ink is a universal standard in our happy little family of heavily disfigured rockers. Tell me about it. He volunteered to drive the bus but he’s clearly never experienced anything remotely like a tour. 

There’s a collective groan of protest as I test the microphone and it squeals harshly with feedback.

He offered and you didn’t care to mention it to us? 

I raise an eyebrow at Meredith and pick my sexy black Stratocaster up from its stand. He’d never keep up with us. I told him to turn up tonight and see how we roll, but he won’t. Even if he does, he’d never get past the door without a ticket. Besides, he called us ‘Bystander’. 

There’s a wince of pain from my band mates at this unwelcome arrival of news. Our band name is very close to our hearts and we hate it being shortened down to one word. We’re all Psychology graduates, except Erek, our Polish prince, who’s still doing his degree. But we love him through his lack of qualification because he’s our demon drummer.

We could train him, you know. What’s his name? I’m appalled to turn and see the look in Meredith’s eyes that tells me that she’s actually considering Mr. McDonald’s offer.

CJ.

CJ works. What’s it short for?

I wasn’t interested enough to ask.

Okay, well if he actually turns up, let’s consider it. 

Big Dave, our number one roadie, waves a hand at us. Sorry to interrupt your riveting conversation but its 6:30pm and the doors open in two hours. Quit yapping. We’re instantly silenced—Big Dave is the only person who has that kind of power over us. It’s less due to the fact that he’s about twenty stone and built like a brick shit house, but more down to the fact that he’s a seriously strong willed man and we deeply respect him. He’s stuck with us through everything, thick and thin. Though typically, he throws back cans of Carling like they’re water and had his driving license revoked for drunk driving. Fucking plank.

We can hear the mad rush of little rockers filing in through the door at 8:30pm, and even after five years of this, it still gets me every time. I’ve got my stage face on and Louise has dressed me up in a polka-dot swing dress, TUK Mary Jane fuck-me heels, and styled my hair into some swanky victory rolls to try and set me at ease in the comfort of my rockabilly image of preference, but I’ve still got that nagging feeling of nervousness in the pit of my stomach. There again, it could be dodgy sushi.

Our support acts are cute—they’re a little more at ease with us after four gigs and have stopped treating us like celebrities. We all really appreciate that because so few people remember that we’re still humans regardless of our status. We’ve been in the support act position ourselves, that’s where we started, and a record contract didn’t suddenly turn us into four hollow, elitist arseholes.

I’m desperately clutching a glass of cheap Pinot Grigio, knowing full well that white wine is the only thing I can drink and keep a steady enough mind to remember our set list without heaving, when Plato sits down beside me backstage. You really love watching the support acts play, don’t you?

Sure, it’s kind of nostalgic for me; knowing that it used to be us warming up the crowds. Admittedly not for long, but they were good times nonetheless. He nods and wraps his arm around my shoulders. How are things with Levi? Plato blows a raspberry and sighs.

He still thinks I’m a closet hetero after finding that girl of Erek’s in my bunk at the Wolves gig. I mean, we’ve all explained the situation to him and shown him the pictures of them sucking face all night but he’s still being bitchy with me. What’s a gay to do, huh?

He’ll come round. He always does. You know he can’t resist a tour. Plato takes one of my tattooed hands and threads his fingers between mine. I know that advance—he knows that I’m nervous.

Why are you still bricking it after all this time? You know all this fear will dissolve as soon as you step out there. We hate seeing you withdraw like this before every gig. 

I pull him into a hug and bury my face in his neck. I don’t know, but I don’t think I really mind that this happens. It means that I still have a soul, right? I raise my head as Meredith strolls over, looking hot as ever in PVC trousers and a satin corset, heavily tattooed forearms on show. Meow.

Right back at you, baby doll. Looks like you have company.

What? She jerks her head towards the staff entrance and I can vaguely hear raised voices on the other side. Chase? Frowning, she shakes her head, holding out her hand and leading me over to the door.

Fucks sake man, I told you! I’m with the band. Your chick Amelia invited me. Amelia Marsh. My mouth hits the floor. I know that voice.

I think you should calm down, mate. I haven’t had any messages to say she’s accepting company. Meredith sticks her head through the door and whispers in Big Dave’s ear. He pushes the door open and shoots me a disapproving look. Ah hell, you do not want to piss that guy off. I slink over slowly, afraid that he might squash me, and bat my eyelids.

Well? Did you invite that? I peer my head into the corridor and step out. It’s him all right, and he looks delicious. He’s still wearing those baggy jeans but he’s had the decency to don a black shirt with red pinstripes, rolled up at the sleeves. He’s got Skull Candy headphones around his neck and their lead is fed into the iPod Touch in his breast pocket. I refer to my previous statement—I could do him some serious damage, and from the noises Meredith is making next to me, I reckon she wouldn’t mind a stab at breaking him through overuse either.

Yeah, that's my fault all right. Sorry, sugar tits. I lean up and kiss Big Dave on the cheek, leaving the shape of my lips in bold red arches on his skin. He shakes his head at me and I know that all is forgiven; the guy is a sucker for blondes. Actually he's a sucker for anything with a pair of tits, but that's a negligible point.

He points at his cheek and raises an eyebrow. I’m not wiping that off, you know.

I’d be offended if you did, big guy. The next time you nearly die from a diabetic coma on the bus, I’m peeling that section of skin off and eBaying it. He flashes me a surprisingly handsome grin and turns back out to Mr. McDonald’s as I head back inside.

Alright Maccy D, in you go. CJ walks in with a look of distinct confusion and I put my stage face back on. The moment I do he spots me and his face tells it all. He’s shocked. I left him looking baggy and dishevelled, and now he’s staring at a vixen. 

Meredith passes behind me and dips her face next to my ear. Okay, you were right. He’s never going to keep up with us if he comes in his pants every time he looks at you. I slap her backside for her vulgarity and put my hands on my hips. 

CJ approaches me with caution, head cocked and green eyes glinting. When he’s finally close enough, he reaches out and runs his hands down the oriental tattoo work on both my arms. His touch does strange things to me from the waist down, least not because he’s actually had the balls to do it. Holy shit. Hmm, suddenly seeming a little more like your type am I?

You seem surprised.

That’s one word for it. I narrow my eyes before the guys square up to him behind me. He doesn’t look half as intimidated as he probably should, and honestly, I’m a little disheartened. 

Erek extends a hand and looks at CJ expectantly. He doesn’t hesitate to grab it and shake briskly. CJ, right? Welcome to the dark side. Meredith hasn’t said a word and I know damn well that it’s because she’s sizing him up. If I don’t utilise him, I can guarantee that she will.

Plato puts a protective hand on my shoulder. So you want to drive our tour bus? You ever been on tour before?

No, but I drove in the Gumball Rally. I scoff in disbelief. Sure, every punk from uni gets sounded out as a Gumball driver.

Really, who for? 

He holds up his hands and shakes his head. I’m sworn to secrecy. 

I roll my eyes and turn on my heels to the side of the stage and watch our first support act rev up our crowd with their last number. They are really awesome—I can see them being signed in the not too distant future. CJ slinks up by my side and leans up against the wall. God damn it, does he need to follow me everywhere? 

They’re good. Bowled over by his enthusiasm? No.

I glance sideways at him and a raise an eyebrow. Have you ever been back stage at a gig before? He shakes his head. Everything that you thought you knew about the rock industry is going to get blown to shit if you come on tour; you do know that, don’t you?

Who says I know anything about the rock industry? I’m a blank canvas. I reach over and pull his iPod Touch from his pocket and scroll through his current playlist. It’s full of Prodigy, Pendulum and a bunch of crappy looking bands I’ve never heard of. Of course, he’s one of those emos that listens to dubstep and drum ‘n’ bass. He just suddenly got slightly less sexy. 

What are you even doing here?

He turns his head to me and frowns. Still sexy, even when baffled. You told me to come.

I didn’t think you actually would. I’m not your type apparently. The support act filing off stage is a welcome distraction for me. I’m starting to get a little worried by how much this guy insults me so effortlessly. He’s barely spoken to me and I want to punch him in the teeth.

Meredith slinks up behind me and slings a bare arm around my shoulders. Hey, Maccy Ds, any ink? He blinks at her for a moment before he starts to unbutton his shirt. Whoa there, ace, what do you think I mean by ‘ink’?

It’s on my back, arsehole. Meredith digs her nails into my shoulder to stop herself launching her fist into his face and plasters on a fake smile. I’m glad it’s not just me who reacts to him with suppressed violence.

Call me ‘arsehole’ again and I’ll get Big Dave to sit on you. CJ smirks and pulls his shirt off. I get a first time glimpse his torso and feel myself clench. He’s ripped and immaculate—the muscles in his abdomen pairing off into beautifully sculpted sections. My initial observation across the library could not have been more wrong. Meredith pinches me to pull me back to compos mentis before he turns around and reveals a full sized HR Giger tattoo across his toned back. I don’t know who his tattoo artist is but he deserves some serious kudos.

Meredith tuts and shakes her head. Ooh, this is embarrassing. CJ looks a little dazed as she makes an uninvited grab at the hem of my dress and reveals the same HR Giger piece on my thigh. He has that look of expiration on his face again and inhales slowly as his eyes examine my leg with immense satisfaction. She leans across and pats his arm sympathetically. You really need to exercise a little self-restraint, mate. 

I watch as she swans off to Plato’s side and when I turn back, I’m astonished to find CJ on his knees at my feet running his thumbs across my thigh. Holy shit, this is hot.

Um, hello? I understand that I haven’t explained my personal boundaries to you but there’s a basic level of human decency that should be ingrained in all of us. 

He looks up at me numbly from the ground and slowly rises back to my eye level.

Sorry, I’ve just never seen a chick with Giger on her before. What the hell? My Giger tattoo is iconic—it’s probably been in every rock magazine in the country. Maybe he means in person.

I look out across the crowd as the background music dips to silence for a moment and they go insane before the next track kicks in. On an intellectual level, this reaction pleases me every time. Poor suckers are like Pavlov’s dogs out there. I glance back at CJ and smirk—an expression which is promptly wiped away by his look of blank ignorance.

Who’s dogs? Of course, he’s not a Psychology major.

Pavlov. It’s called classical conditioning. He was doing a study of dog’s gastric functions when he realised that they started to salivate for food before there was any real stimulus—no smell or visual cues. He realised that the dogs had learned to associate the appearance of lab coats with the arrival of lunch. Through further testing, he discovered that this association with food could be changed—he rang a bell before the dogs were fed and before long, the dogs would begin to drool at the sound of the bell.

So how is this like that? Oh Jesus, what an idiot.

I point outside to the crowd. They associate the break in the music with the arrival of a band and go nuts whenever it happens. Every time the music breaks, they get a little more amped. They work themselves up more and more, and then we arrive on stage and give them the much needed ear-fuck they’re gagging for. He looks surprised by my explanation but doesn’t ask me for any further elaboration. I’m secretly a little disappointed because I love to confuse dumb shits with psychological jargon. There again, if he’s just finishing up his Sociology degree, he’s obviously not an imbecile.

Our second support act stroll out on stage and busy themselves briefly before the background music stops, and they crescendo into their first number. It’s a welcome reprieve from this strained conversation, but a signal for that nagging sense of stage fright to return. CJ follows me as I embark on a frantic search for more wine, but at this point of time, I really couldn’t care less what he does or says. I feel positively sea sick.

I manage to shake him off and head for the open fire exit, stumbling into Plato and his boyfriend, Levi, engaged in some frantic mouth on mouth action. I’ve walked in on them balls deep in each other enough times to not be fazed by this. 

I raise my glass cordially and find a patch of dry pavement to nurse a bottle of cheap Lambrini. Desperate times and all. Evening ladies. 

Levi pulls away from their lip lock and gives me a small salute. Looking lovely as usual, Mimi. I can’t help but smile at him. I love his pet name for me. He’s positively gorgeous with his sparkling blue eyes and well-trimmed faux-hawk.

It’s a shame you’re a fudge packer, Levi. I can always count on my crass comments to be taken in good humour, thank god. They saunter over, sit on either side of me and throw their disturbingly masculine arms around my shoulders.

Plato says you have male company. Is he hot?

I shrug and shake my head. He’s kind of clean cut and innocent looking. 

Plato scoffs on my left and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. He’s a fucking dream boat, Levi. You know what this one is like. 

Levi nods knowingly at me. In for neither a penny nor a pound—no boyfriends or groupies. You’re a bit boring, Amelia May.

Pfft. I’m many things, but I’m definitely not boring. I’m too mercurial to be boring. I drain my glass and stand up unsteadily, supported by my two incredibly camp escorts.

We get back inside and Erek is talking casually to CJ—they’re both sat down on the floor with their legs crossed and nursing bottles of Budweiser. He’s settling in a little too well, I think, and I worry about what Erek is telling him, though hopefully he’s detailing my boundaries and scaring the crap out of him. 

The band on stage file off to applause and our roadies fly on in their place.

An incredible knot of tension tightens in my stomach and I grab onto the wall for support. My band mates look at me wearily as the world slips into slow motion and I start to feel like I’m drowning. I can’t hear a damn thing around me through the pounding of my heart as I sink to the floor in a stupor and close my eyes.

Hey, you okay? Everything whips back into real time as I open my eyes to find myself confronted by that green soul destroying gaze.

CJ's eyes flare at me as I lick my dry lips and regain my equilibrium. I’m fine.

Your drummer says you always zone out before a gig. Thanks a fucking lot, Erek.

Have you ever been on stage in front of that many people? One of our roadies shouts a five minute warning to us and I tear myself from his eyes. I really should have just banged him and sent him packing when he arrived.

And then he makes a fatal mistake and brushes my cheek with the back of his fingers. The contact is paralysing and I’m like a rabbit caught in emerald headlights. His proximity to my face is too much and instead of drowning in my fear, I’m drowning in his presence. You look awesome, by the way.

Meredith storms over and yanks me by my hand, smiling sweetly at him. I’ll take this one. She hands me my guitar and shoves me toward the stage. Are you all right? I saw what just happened; you looked totally psyched out. My words just won’t form and she can tell that I’m in a bad place psychologically. Not only am I shitting myself about performing, but I’m now horrified and horny, too. We really need him as a driver, baby doll.

No. Absolutely no fucking way. I snatch her vodka and coke from her hand and empty the glass. I’ll call my god damn father. 

The music outside fades to silence and that’s our cue to feed some dogs. Think happy thoughts. I stroll out onto the stage and all that frustration and apprehension evaporates with the rhythmic tapping of Erek’s drumsticks.

The Birmingham crowds are awesome as always. We’ve all been living in the area for a while, so there’s a lot of familiar faces who have followed us since we were just a shitty little college band playing in pubs. I can forget all my worries out here and thrash around like an idiot knowing that people have willingly paid to watch me do it. The screams and cheers are immensely satisfying.

By some unknown wave of morbid curiosity, I let my gaze slip off-stage between songs and catch sight of CJ leaning against the wall. I can’t quite believe my eyes; he’s got his SkullCandy headphones pulled up over his ears and is witlessly playing with his phone. I raise an eyebrow at Meredith, she mouths ‘I know’ at me and shakes her head in disbelief. Are you joking me, or what?

All four of us storm past him when we leave the stage. We’re all deeply unimpressed that he was extended a backstage invitation and he spent our entire set listening to fucking Pendulum or some shit. 

He yanks his headphones off as the crowd starts to file out of the building and our roadies set to clearing the stage. Is that it?

Meredith spins around to him in an obvious rage. What?

I thought this was a Bystander Effect gig.

She blinks at him and coughs out a laugh. You fucking missed them, you penis.

Shit, when? I thought the headliners went on last? 

All four of us are hit by the same realisation at precisely the same moment. I prowl over to him and tug his iPod from his pocket and flick through. There we are—The Bystander Effect on his Now Playing list. The irony is tragic.

You buy all your music off iTunes, don’t you? He nods with a frown. His aloofness is almost sexy. No album artwork?

It’s more convenient to have it all computerised. He doesn’t have a god damn clue who we are. That’s just the kind of anonymity we crave in our lives. Do you still need a driver? I glance around to the guys and they all shrug at me, they’re thinking exactly what I am.

Do you have your driving license handy? His hand dives into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. I really have to resist the urge to tell him that he could have just asked me to retrieve it for him. He hands me the red photo card and I check it over with a raised eyebrow. Caspian Jonas Pearce. Jesus Christ, what a name, no wonder he goes by CJ. You fucking royalty or something? I pass his license to Plato over my shoulder and he wanders into a corner with his phone.

No, but my dad is an MP. Arnold Pearce.  I can’t believe that this guy is son to that arsehole.

I bet you get some shit off him for the hair.

You wouldn’t believe. Plato taps my shoulder just in time to save me from drowning in those eyes again.

Clean slate, honey bee—not even a caution. I run my tongue over my teeth and pull a face. He’s hot, aloof and a good driver. They’ll bitch slap me if I tell him to vanish now. 

I raise a finger to his face and flick CJ's nose. Why did that turn me on? We’ll be on George Street at 10:30am on Friday morning. Don’t be late.

He flashes me an unbelievably sexy smile and turns on his heels past Big Dave. I can hear the guys laughing behind me.

Fuckers.

III

We’re all standing on George Street clutching to our Starbucks coffee cups, hoping to absorb some much needed caffeine through our skin. Considering our collective IQ, we can be really stupid about late nights and early mornings. We seriously considered McDonalds breakfasts just to make a sly dig at CJ, but then we got papped walking through the Bullring and decided against it. 

Meredith holds her iPad out to me- we’re already big news. The Bystander Effect indulges in some mid-tour retail therapy. What the fuck, that’s not even a story.

CJ arrives five minutes early with a Converse holdall slung over his shoulder. I had secretly hoped he’d welch on the deal. He looks disgustingly attractive in tailored trousers, a loose white shirt and a leather tie. I can practically smell the pheromones oozing from Plato, Levi and Meredith.

Jesus, boy. You didn’t need to dress up on our account. He frowns at Levi and glances down at his attire. Oh for god’s sake, he’s not even making an effort and he looks like a rockstar. Fuck my life. I push my aviators further up my nose knowing that I didn’t bother with make-up this morning and actually couldn’t even be arsed to brush my teeth. Thank god there’s a shower on the bus.

He glances around casually, rocking onto the balls of his feet and then back onto his heels. So… tour bus? Seems a bit off in the way of a greeting. ‘Good morning, Amelia, thank you again for extending the offer of driving your immense bus of awesomeness’ might have worked better for me. Erek disappears around the corner and returns a few minutes later with a tremendous blare from the bus’s horn. 

CJ’s face is a real picture, he must have been expecting a transit van and instead he's got a converted transcontinental double decker coach re-sprayed in black and red. Holy shit.

What’s up Caspian? Feeling intimidated?

He blinks impassively and shrugs. Just seems a bit excessive. I’ve seen smaller haulage wagons. Excessive? Clueless.

I roll my eyes and shove past him onto the bus. Do you have any idea how much kit you need for a tour? There are amps, guitars, leads… 

He holds his hands up to silence me. "Okay, I get it. I can handle it.

We climb into the bus and I hear CJ whistle behind me. We had the coach refurbished in chrome and black leather; the lower deck is essentially a kitchen, bathroom and living area with a couple of bunk beds and upstairs is a giant bedroom with the back section reserved for Big Dave and Louise—the only roadies who travel with us because we trust them implicitly not to divulge our exploits to the media. 

Ho-ly shit. If he says ‘holy shit’ once more, I won’t be held accountable for my actions. Just his face is pissing me off today.

Stop standing in awe and get used to it. If you stick with us for the duration, you’re going to have to live in this. You’re going to be eating, breathing and sleeping rock and roll. I cram the keys into his hand and stomp off toward the bathroom. "Dent it and I swear to god I will dent you." He sucks his teeth and looks like he’s going to laugh at me. My gut reaction is to smile but I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he has that kind of influence over my emotions.

I barricade myself in the bathroom and stare at myself over my aviators. I look like death warmed up and it doesn’t exactly suit me. My eyes are dull and bloodshot, and my usually platinum blonde hair has gone that shitty mousy shade which I hate as a result of still carrying a gig’s worth of sweat. Sexy. 

I strip down to shower and the bus lurches forward and stalls. Fucking hell, we haven’t even left and he’s already butchering my vehicle!

Plato is sat in the passenger seat next to him calmly talking him through moving the beast and raises a hand to me. S’up, honey bee? I’ll give him fucking ‘s’up’.

I felt the stall from the bathroom. What the fuck, man?

Give me a break, Amelia. The biggest thing I’ve ever driven is a Land Rover. CJ turns around in the driver’s seat and freezes in his place. I’m suddenly very aware of the fact I’m standing in my underwear, and I’ve seen that look before—he’s sizing me up again . A smile slowly spreads across his face. Oh goody, approval from a nobody, just what I needed to validate my existence.

What’s wrong, Caspian? Never seen a chick in her pants before? 

He raises an eyebrow at me before turning back to the steering wheel. Not a hot tattooed chick. I bite my lip and turn on my heels quickly so he doesn’t see my cheeks heat. I should be immune to compliments by now, but somehow this guy just brings out the school girl in me—and my school days aren’t something which I’m keen to relive. Nice blush, lush. Plato stifles a laugh behind me. The redness has obviously spread to my back. Jokes on CJ though, because everyone in a five mile radius can see his boner.

Nice dick, dick. I storm back off into the bathroom for a shower. A cold shower.

I’m loathed to admit it, but once he’s gotten over the initial shock of the size of the bus, it’s a pretty smooth ride to Manchester. I suspect CJ's capability is limited only to driving and first person shooters. 

I’m feeling slightly more relaxed for my icy shower, some eyeliner and a good old reading session with Sigmund Freud. Meredith is sitting across from me—I’m sure she’s dependant on that iPad to live.

She holds it up and grins. "Check it out, Mr. McDonalds is in Rage Against Everyone." I frown at her and yank the iPad from her hand. A picture of CJ and Plato sitting in the front of the tour bus separated by a half-naked me fills most of the page, with the caption Bystander Three Way. I’m absolutely horrified, but she’s laughing at me. Would you relax? What is your problem?

Three way is my problem, and if it’s not removed, Chase will be my problem.  I yank my phone from my pocket and dial a number. I should have these idiots on speed dial or my own private direct line.

"Ra—" I don't need to hear their bullshit precursory greeting.

"It’s Amelia Marsh, again. Tell your webmaster to remove that fucking picture."

Ah, Amelia, always a pleasure. Can I ask why this time?

Because the new guy is just our tour bus driver. It’s his first day on the job, you’ve already caused enough speculation over Plato’s relationship problems and if I want to walk around in my pants on my tour bus, I’ll damn well do it. It doesn't automatically mean I'm fucking the band. 

I hang up and I’m about to launch my phone across the room when it rings again. Meredith leans over and grits her teeth at the flashing name. Oh dear.

Oh dear, indeed. This douche-bag never just calls for a friendly chat. I might hate him less if he did. Chase, what can I do for you?

"Something you want to tell me?" I quickly hit refresh on the iPad and the picture no longer exists. Fast work—they must have been expecting it, which begs the question, why put it on in the first place? Maybe they just like my telephone voice.

Haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about.

RAE website? 

I flare my nostrils at Meredith. Yeah, I’m on the website now, what’s the problem? The line goes dead and I think I’m off the hook. For now. You’ll let me know if that picture surfaces elsewhere?

Of course, but I don’t understand why you don’t just sack him off. I shake my head and bury myself back into my book. She knows damn well why I don’t sack him off.

I’m daydreaming about leather ties and pinstripe shirts in a bunk when I’m rudely roused by the sound of ringing. It’s disturbed the guys, too, and none of us are too happy about it. We’ve all been casually dozing or catching up with families. Downtime is rare for us during tours. 

CJ’s friend's voice makes us flinch and we all creep closer to the driver’s seat to eavesdrop. 

Yo! CJ, man, you ditched us on Wednesday. Where the fuck were you? He sounds as thick as pig shit.

Out. The Bystander Effect gig. Oh well, at least he got the name right this time.

Aaah. With a chick?

Duh with a chick. A backstage chick.

No way. Was she hot?

Of course, man. She’s covered with tattoos and has legs for days. The guys raise their eyebrows at me. I shrug in response—the man has a point.

Did you screw her?

Nah man, she’s kind of a bitch and too smart for me. Way out of my league and made sure I knew it. Oh good, he knows where he stands. But I’m driving her band’s tour bus now. I angle my head slightly and see that his conversation is over FaceTime on his iPod.

Tour bus? Dude, what’s her name?

Amelia Marsh.

"NO FUCKING WAY! Dude, you’ve been on the web this morning!" Meredith shoots me a look and I have no choice but to intervene. I pop my head up behind the driver’s seat and pull the iPod off a hands-free stand which CJ has attached to the dashboard—without asking permission, I might add. "No. Way." His friend is pug ugly and is making no effort to conceal his lechery. I don’t mind if it’s blatant when it comes from a nice looking guy, but when they look like Mother Nature confused an anus with a mouth, I tend to object.

I hate to interrupt this productive conversation, mate, but if CJ’s looking at you, it means he’s not looking at the road. I clip the iPod back into the stand and narrow my eyes at CJ. Say goodbye and stop answering FaceTime while you’re driving before you kill us.

I stalk off back my bunk and catch his friend saying,You’re right man, she is a bitch. So I poke my head back into view and give him the finger before turning off the call on CJ’s behalf.

Meredith follows me back to my bunk and gives me that look. That was harsh, Ams. No pleasing some, the call had to end.

The hell it was. He woke us all up and then called me a bitch.

She arches an eyebrow. "You are a bitch, Amelia, but CJ is doing us a favour and you’re not his boss. You can’t order him around like that. I know what you’re doing." I scowl and blank her out because she’s pissing me off. I scowl because she knows me too well, and I scowl because I hate it when she’s right. Triplicate fucking scowl.

I make a conscious effort to avoid any form of communication until we arrive at MoHo Live in Manchester. This means that I’ve diverted four calls from Chase to voice mail, and I can only imagine what’s in store for me when I listen to his messages. Meredith is still pissed at me, and the guys aren’t fully clued in, so there’s nobody to listen to them for me. CJ parks up outside the venue and they all bail out for food, so I use the opportunity to survey the damage.

"Amelia, answer your fucking phone. I know you had that photo removed from the Rage Against Everyone website." 

"Congratulations, you’ve hit the gossip pages with your little exhibition this morning. I’ve done your damage control. No need to thank me. Answer your phone."

"You’re really starting to piss me off, Marsh. You know that I have a scoop about you that the media would just love to get their hands on."

"If you ignore my next fucking call I’ll be right on the phone to the tabloids and your label."

I hate this twunt. Meredith keeps telling me that he doesn’t have a good enough hold on me to keep me reined in, but I don’t need to be labelled as a freak and ruin the careers of my band mates when the shit hits the fan.

His next call comes while I’m still holding my phone. I can’t avoid this. What do you want, Chase?

"Who the fuck is the new guy?" Why does nobody just say 'hello' anymore?

He’s the tour bus driver. Ryan broke his foot.

"Are you fucking him?" He just had to ram straight into the probing, didn't he? Didn’t have the courtesy to lube me up first and ease in or anything.

No, not that it’s any of your god damn business.

I can make it my business if you don’t have some discretion. Plus I can make sure he knows what a freak you are.

I’m not a freak, Chase.

You are a fucking freak. You and your friends can dress it up with as many big psychological terms as you want, but a girl that has an anxiety attack when a guy comes on to her is a fucking freak. 

I hang up on him and thank god that the bus is empty because I can’t control the raw emotion any more. I’m not one to cry at the drop of a hat, but this tool manages to break me every time I talk to him.

Hey, are you okay? I look up in horror to see CJ looming by the door.

Shit. I wipe my face and turn away. Did you hear any of that? He sits down opposite me and tries to engage me in another of his wrecking ball staring competitions.

Only your side of it. Psycho ex?

Something like that. For the second time, I’m completely thankful for his ignorance.

Guys who talk to girls like shit need stringing up by the balls. You need to sever the ties with him. I’d rather sever his balls and string him up by his tie.

I shake my head. It’s not that simple. Please don’t ask for elaboration.

Sure it is. Whatever dirt it is that he thinks he has on you, he can’t start trashing you without making himself look like a complete dick, too. My eyes widen in surprise—he’s absolutely right. Chase can’t cause a media shit storm about me without getting caught in the lightning. This is more damaging to his career mine. 

CJ tilts his head to catch my gaze and smirks. He’s an idiot for getting on the wrong side of you, Amelia. You’re sexy as sin and you’ve got a sweet ass. His compliment is vulgar, but it tips the scales of my mood from depressed to somewhere near cheerful.  

But I have to turn away from his gaze and scold myself. He’s pulled me out of my depression and out of one of my pre-show anxiety attacks. What the fuck is this guy doing to me?

The guys arrive back just in time to stop me from jumping on him or killing him. I’m not sure which, but in either case he actually looks a little disappointed by the interruption. I’m going to have to keep him at arm’s length from now on or he’ll get too attached and we’ll have to cut him loose.

I stand up and he grabs my hand. It sends a ripple of shock through my body and I’m paralysed again, just like I was when he came backstage. So it’s not just my face... 

Hey, I’m here if you want to talk about it, okay? 

I tug my hand free and frown at him. No, this is a kind of unexpected closeness that I’m neither familiar nor comfortable with. I have to deter him from thinking that he’s anything more than a driver. Fuck off, CJ. If anything, he’s just going to get pissed off with me being bipolar and decide I’m too much effort. I probably am. 

Meredith grabs at me as I push past her and pulls me into the bathroom. It’s perfectly obvious that she’s still fuming at me and I’m doing very little to improve her mood. 

What the hell is going on with you, baby doll? Okay, if she’s calling me baby doll, she can’t be that pissed off.

Chase is threatening to go to the media again.

Nothing new there then. But I meant CJ. I blink at her vacantly. She already knows what’s going on. She has to. The girl has known me my entire life and if that's long enough to synchronise menstrual cycles, it's long enough to know my inner-most thoughts. Just screw him and we’ll get your dad to find us a new driver. That’s her answer to everything.

You were telling me how he’s indispensable two days ago.

She leans back against the shower screen and folds her arms. He is, but you’re obviously frisky for him and we never hang around with your lays. It makes you feel awkward, doesn’t it? I put my hand on the door and brace myself for the inevitable pending reaction to what I’m about to say. She won’t like it.

It’s not that simple. Her eyes widen as I yank the door open and retreat into the safety of Plato and Levi’s arms. Those four words are taboo and invariably precede trouble.

"Not that simple? Not this