Pieces of Me (Midnight Steel Trilogy Book 1)
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Pieces of Me
A Midnight Steel Novel
Book One
by Lori J. Nelson
Copyright@2017 by Lori J. Nelson
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any manner whatsoever without the written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and articles.
-Dedication-
First and foremost, I need to thank my mother, Penny Nelson, for teaching me the joy of reading. That has remained one of my favorite pastimes all these years later. We still trade books back and forth to this day. And a special thanks to my mom again and Deb Pool, for helping me proof this book multiple times. Your contributions were greatly appreciated.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 1
The roof of the Bell Center in Montreal, Canada was about to blow. The volume inside was positively deafening, but not one single person attempted to leave. The jam-packed arena held twenty-five thousand screaming fans that were all singing along and pumping their fists in the air to the best rock and roll band on the planet. Everyone knew they were seeing the greatest concert of their lives, courtesy of Midnight Steel.
Security had a difficult time throughout the night trying to control the crowd as they kept trying to surge toward the stage. Every single person there wanted to get as close to the band as possible. While Midnight Steel’s guitar driven music appealed to the male fans, the females in the audience also loved the fact that these four men were as desirable as they came. All four of members of this British band were as different as night was to day and that drew every sort of woman to want them.
The hot stage lights that hung high above the band flashed every color imaginable over the stage. The band members were bathed in the brilliant hues of greens, blues, reds, pinks, and yellows as they moved across the stage. The lights played along to the music, choreographed perfectly to each song. Not only could the fans hear and feel the music, but they could see it too
Then, after almost an hour of nonstop music, the vibrant stage suddenly turned dark. After just enough time had passed to get the crowd screaming for the band, a single white spotlight appeared on center stage. Under it, engulfed in its brightness, stood the lead singer Ethan Madden.
He raised both arms up from his sides and the crowd instantly hushed. With his arms still outstretched he began to sing. His incredible voice rose out to each and every person in the crowd as he sang the initial lines of Danger to the Dream a cappella. Ethan held the mesmerized audience in the palm of his hand. He was born to be exactly where he was - out front for the most famous rock band in the world.
Ethan’s dazzling green eyes flirted with every female in the front row. He spoke of silent promises and desires, and every woman there was begging to be the one to satisfy him. These desperate ladies were notorious for being vicious in the battle of who won the sexy black haired lead singer’s affection. Standing there alone on stage, in his traditional black t-shirt and black jeans, his well-toned muscular body helped him to belt out every single note he was singing.
As he finished the first verse, the bright spotlight that was upon him suddenly vanished. The darkness that now engulfed the stage caused the crowd to hush in frantic anticipation of what was to come next. It only took a few scant seconds before the stage erupted into a pulsating explosion of color, music, and pyrotechnics as the band ripped into the rest of the song, causing everyone to go absolutely insane.
Tony Fleming was a crazy man on the drums. He pounded away to the beat with his ever-present devilish grin shining out from under his flying waist-length mane of brown hair. Davey Lloyd was Tony’s onstage counterpart. Davey played the bass with the same aggression he showed life. If trouble could be found in drink, drugs, or women, Davey found it. Just like he found that his bass melded perfectly with Tony’s drums. They were a team both onstage and off, but as different as night and day. As dark as Tony was with some distant Italian blood in him, Davey was just as pale. His light blonde hair gave him an angelic look of innocence, which was as far from the truth as one could get. These two were close friends since before the band, so it was Tony who pulled Davey out of his troubles time and time again.
And then there was Laz.
Malcolm Alexander Lazar - only known as Laz in the world of Rock and Roll, was the best damn guitarist on the planet.
Men wanted to be him, while women just plain wanted him. As he did just about every night for the last eighteen months of the tour, Laz threw every inch of his six-foot frame into his performance. Beads of hard-earned sweat slowly dripped down his forehead, threatening to slip into his brilliant blue eyes. He countered them by throwing his head back, his sandy blonde hair now teasing down his bare back. His fingers magically worked the strings of his prized Gibson Les Paul, much the same way they’ve worked the bodies of countless women during his successful fifteen-year career. The blinding stage lights highlighted every lean, hard muscle of his sinewy body, which was clad only in a pair of ripped, faded jeans.
From head to toe – Laz was every bit the rock star.
The band rocked the arena for another frenzied hour, and by the time they finished their second encore, every fan there knew that they had just seen the best damn rock concert in the world. When the show was officially over, each of the exhausted, but exhilarated band members made sure that they waved to as many people as they could, slapped hundreds of hands and accepted the unconditional love their fans gave them.
Finally, Laz ran off the stage with the rest of the band. His first thought was, “Thank fuckin’ God, that’s over.” His thoughts were a big contradiction to the persona he showed on stage. He loved playing guitar and lived for the stage, but right now he was so glad that it was over. Another tour had finally come to an end after too many months of nonstop traveling. Laz tossed his Les Paul at Jimmy, his guitar tech, and headed straight for the dressing room.
As usual, backstage was packed with an eclectic mix of people. The record company execs were there in their Armani suits. They only showed up only when there was money to be made, and this tour had definitely made a boatload of money. The “suits” were completely in the way, as the harried road crew scrambled around getting ready to break down the stage. Mixed in with everyone were the fan club members or the friends of friends all with backstage passes pasted to their chests. These were the eager and wide-eyed fans that the band was expected to “play nice” with. If Laz heard another, “I’ve been a fan of yours forever! I
love your music!” he was going to be sick. And that was actually the problem - he was sick and tired of everything.
“Great show Man!”
“C’mon here Laz, I have someone I want you to meet.”
“Yo, Dude where you going? I need just five minutes. Laz? Laz!”
“Can I have a selfie? Please, Laz!”
Laz ignored all of the comments thrown at him as he headed back to the dressing room. He stopped for no one and kept on working his way out of the confusion of backstage.
He had just made it through most of the usual chaos when Laz found himself surrounded by the ever-present groupies. A new city, a new stage, but the same eager women. They may have different names and different faces, but they all wanted the same thing…to sleep with a member of Midnight Steel. Once, he would have taken the best looking blonde with him, but lately, he wanted absolutely nothing to do with them.
It wasn’t like he was tied down in a relationship or married, he just wasn’t interested in that type of attention anymore. Another one night stand was not what he wanted. He wanted more, needed so much more, but he just had no idea of how to go about getting it.
The nameless faces had all started to look the same to him. Most of these nightly conquests just wanted to say that they had slept with him, while the real groupies, the ones that followed the band from city to city were after something different. They wanted the prestige of being a girlfriend and all of the perks that came with it. The all-access laminate pass, the living on the tour bus, and to be part of that inner circle that, so few got to experience. Many wanted this and did their best to convince the members of Midnight Steel that they were the one for them. The guys however never took them for more than a night or two. None wanted to be tied down to “one piece of ass” when there was so much variety to go around. This was what being a rock star was all about.
Except Laz had finally had enough. They were not the type of women he wanted anymore. He wanted a woman that accepted him for him and not because he was wealthy and famous. The life he had loved for so years was slowly driving him to the edge.
Manicured hands reached out to grab him, but he deftly maneuvered through the mass of eager women. With enticing voices and blatant suggestions, they begged him to stay. Laz turned before he went through the dressing room door, “Sorry, Luvs. Maybe later,” he said his accent more noticeable in his fatigue. He then slipped through the door and left the backstage pandemonium behind. He breathed easily again for the first time in hours. He was finally alone, even though it would be for only a few short minutes. Solitude was impossible to find when you traveled nonstop with three other men, a tour manager, accountant and numerous members of the road crew.
Laz walked over to his wardrobe case and sat down. He pulled off his jet-black boots and tossed them in the direction of the wardrobe, landing half in and out. They were one of his trademarks. The boots and his Les Paul were as much a part of Laz as breathing was.
He sat there in the bare room and looked around. He had been in hundreds of these places, just in different cities. They all looked and felt exactly the same. Empty, except for the wardrobes they brought with them and an old couch in the corner, the room felt as desolate as he was feeling. They had another room - the green room that they made into their own place. Every tour it seemed that the space they had carved out for themselves, was no longer for just them. It was now filled with too many strangers and people that wanted something from them. It no longer held any appeal to him.
Laz wished he could get past this nagging ache that he had to get away. He loved this band and lived to play guitar, but it was no longer enough for him. It used to be all he dreamed about. Ethan had been his best friend since they were little kids. They had fantasized about fame and fortune for years. There was no question that they had the talent and the drive, but they needed someone else to believe in them as much as they did themselves. And when that finally happened, their worlds changed forever.
Now he no longer had any time for himself. Even when they weren’t on tour, he was instantly recognized everywhere. His dream was also his curse. Laz knew his time alone was going to end any minute, so he peeled off his sweaty jeans and tossed them on top of an open drawer. Then he grabbed a clean, soft towel and headed toward the showers. He knew that once the rest of the band found their way to the dressing room, the privacy he sought would be instantly gone. The shower was the best place for him to think right now since the rest of the guys would be still on the adrenaline high that performing always gave them. He had felt that rush for years, and it was as addicting as any drug, but these last few weeks, maybe even months, it had the opposite effect on him. And right now, as much as he loved his bandmates, especially Ethan, he wasn’t ready for their company.
Just as he reached to turn on the water, he heard a multitude of voices burst into the dressing room. “Easy come, easy go,” he thought as he ducked his head under the hot relaxing spray. He wished he could wash away his problems as easily as he could his sweat. Life was never easy for him, so why should it change now?
He was a man that people envied. Everyone thought that being one of rock’s most famous guitarists meant he had everything, but lately Laz didn’t think so. Sometimes, he felt like he had nothing. No privacy, no life, no one who loved him for him. They all wanted “Laz,” Midnight Steel’s illustrious guitarist, not Alek, the man. They wanted his celebrity status, they wanted his money to spend, but no one wanted the person that was inside. And the man that was inside was as lonely as any human could be.
“Where in the bloody hell is my scotch?” Laz growled as he searched through the jumble of bottles on the bar. “God help me if there is not a bottle of Glenlivet here, I will so kick Stephen’s arse!”
“Did I hear my name used in vain?” Stephen Trowley, Midnight Steel’s road manager, babysitter, and miracle worker slipped alongside Laz. He had seen the look of impatience on his guitarist’s face since the moment he entered the suite and that, combined with the careless tossing around of the liquor bottles, Stephen knew that his never-ending duty of caretaker was needed. “Laz, have I ever forgotten your scotch? No. You just have to have a little faith and …” Stephen reached behind the bar and pulled out a bottle. “Here she is, Laz. Now have a drink, maybe it will cure your dreadful mood. Now go socialize!” With a laugh and a pat on the back to Laz, Stephen turned back to join in the party.
“How the hell was I to know he’s hiding the damn bottle!”
Laz over poured himself a glass of the fiery amber alcohol and he downed a much needed gulp. He closed his eyes as the intense warmth from the liquor quickly spread through him. Glass in hand, he found an open piece of wall, and lazily leaned against it. He was absolutely bored to death.
His band had just finished their final show of their sold-out world tour, and this was the after-tour party. They had rented a large suite at the Le Westin Montreal Hotel where the band was staying to celebrate the end of the successful tour.
Laz watched the crowd for a few minutes until he realized that he was spotted by someone he really didn’t want to talk to. Groaning, he tried to look for a quick place to hide, but it was too late. Weaving towards him was a large man in a wrinkled gray suit. He had no desire to talk this slightly intoxicated and always obnoxious man. Jerry Sinclair had always rubbed Laz the wrong way ever since he became a vice president at Excalibur five years ago. Jerry thought too much in dollar signs and less in talent and loyalty.
“Laz! My man! How the hell are you?” Jerry called out in an overly loud voice as he pushed his way through the crowd.
“I’m doing fine, Jerry. Did you enjoy the show tonight?” Laz asked trying at least a bit to be a bit civil.
“You guys were great as always. A bit loud for my liking, but you sold out the house and makes me very happy if you know what I mean.” Jerry playfully punched Laz in the shoulder with a wink.
Laz took a sip from his glass so the typical fury this man put him in would have a brief moment
to subside. Were dollar signs all he ever thought about? What about the music? What about the bloody music! “Rock and Roll is loud, Jerry. There’s no way to get around that, or we would be bleeding elevator music.”
“Oh I know, Laz. It’s just not my style. You know I prefer the softer music the label handles. But I keep track of our star players! Oh yes, I do! And everyone at Excalibur knows who brings in the big bucks year after year!”
Knowing he was not going to have the patience to deal with Jerry much longer, Laz looked for a way to get out from this man’s company. A sly smirk spread across his handsome face as he found his answer. “Hey, Jerry, there’s Tony. I know he told me earlier that he wanted to talk to you about the next album. He has some new publicity ideas he intends to run by you.”
“He does? That Tony is always working on something. I’ll catch up more with you later, Laz.” And just as Laz had hoped, Jerry went off to find Tony leaving Laz once again to his own company.
“Annoying little prick,” Laz mumbled under his breath. He wandered back to the bar and refilled his only partially empty glass. “I wonder what the label would be like it Quincy was still around. Damn, I miss that son of a bitch.”
Quincy Harris was the reason that Midnight Steel was here today. Laz and the band had gotten along with him tremendously, from the first moment he discovered them to the car accident that took his life several years ago.