The Rock Star’s Fake Fiancee - Kenzie Reed Page 0,3

of the security guards chants to us.

As we hurry towards the front door of the studio, the women let out a collective shriek that makes my molars ache. Magnus, who couldn’t stop flirting any more than he could stop breathing, waves at them, and they scream even louder.

I spare a brief glance at a girl who’s shrieking her love for me at the top of her lungs. She has excellent lungs. I know, because she’s pulled her T-shirt up to show me.

“Not bad,” Magnus observes. He’s always on the prowl. I’m not.

She notices his interest and immediately switches allegiance. “Magnus! I love you, Magnus!”

I stifle a laugh. “She loved me first. That’s my face on her T-shirt.”

He smirks. “Bro. I am completely fine with sloppy seconds.” She’s jumping up and down now, which does interesting things to her…lungs.

“Eyes front,” advises Monica, our makeup artist and hair stylist. “Don’t encourage them. I’m not up for another trampling incident today. It’s too freaking hot.” Monica is a tall, olive-skinned stunner with a fondness for stiletto heels, sarcastic comments, and bright, fruity-colored clothes. Our guitar player, Parker, holds Monica’s hand and stares straight ahead. He’s Monica’s husband, and he’s no fool.

As we walk past the line of reporters waiting to get in, my eyes alight on a short, curvy girl with shining blue hair. I can’t make out much of her face because she’s wearing enormous sunglasses, but something about her makes my dormant libido sit up and take notice.

Hello, sex drive. I thought you’d taken a permanent vacation. I’ve been so focused on turning things around for the band that I’ve barely noticed a woman in a sexual way for the last year.

“Sebastian. Why are we slowing down? It’s hotter than Satan’s butt-crack out here,” Monica grumbles.

I hadn’t noticed that I was slowing down. “Cranky-pants,” I tease her.

“Pregnant-pants,” she murmurs in a low voice. The band hasn’t announced it yet, but she’s four months pregnant. She and Parker are going to be the proud parents of a little baby rock-‘n’-roller.

The guard is waving the blue-haired woman away, even though she showed him her press pass. The woman’s shoulders slump in dismay. I strain my ears to hear them. She says something about how her editor called and she should be on the list, but the guard is a hard-ass. Which is usually a good thing.

Still, seeing this woman’s misery makes me feel a twinge. She’ll probably get in trouble with her editor.

“Go ahead, let her in!” I call out as we walk up the steps.

“She isn’t on the list!” the guard yells back.

“It’s okay.”

At the sound of my voice, the woman turns her face towards me, and I wish I could see what she looks like without those glasses. Something is nagging at me, whispering to me, but we have a bunch of reporters’ butts to kiss, and no time to waste. We hurry into the air-conditioned building.

Our publicist, Russell, is waiting for us by the doorway. He’s a distant cousin of Chris Porter, owner of Blue Blazes Records, which as far as I can tell is his only qualification.

Russell is a giraffe of a man, tall and awkward, his hair scraped and gelled into an Elvis-style pompadour. To make up for his narrow frame, he always wears suits with padded shoulders. He burns with nervous energy, shifting from one foot to the other.

“Why did you let in someone who’s not on the list?” His voice is a petulant whine. “You’re the reason I’m getting gray hairs. I’m too young for gray hair.”

I snort. He’s in his twenties. “You don’t have a single gray hair.”

“That’s because I dye it.” He lets out a long, martyred sigh. “All right. At least you got here on time. Let’s get this show on the road.”

Chris hired Russell to help us clean up our past mistakes. Well, mostly mine. I’m the one with three wrecked hotel suites to my name. Magnus is no slouch either; he has several arrests for getting into bar fights. In my defense…there is no defense. We’ve both matured, apologized, and paid for our mistakes. Unfortunately, in the eyes of the media we’re still those hotel-trashing assholes and we always will be.

Despite my joking around today, I do understand the seriousness of that. It’s not just my career on the line, and it’s not even just the band’s survival. There are dozens of jobs that depend on us—everyone from the drivers, to the sound engineers, to the cooking crew. They’ve committed to