His Fall: A Rockstar Romance

Tyler

Tuesday, April 9th, 2024- Hollywood Bowl, Los Angeles, California-5:45 PM.

Why the fuck did I ever agree to this? To another tour exactly four days after we finished one up? There are two reasons, actually. One, I'm a sucker for the disgusting amount of money we make on these things, and two, the guys talked me into it. I kind of owe them my entire career, and I kind of, sort of, fucked things up really bad. This is one of the two things that I agreed to do to make things right. As for the other? Ugh, don't get me started.

I'm too hungover to deal with any of this.

There are fifteen thousand people out there —mostly women—begging to see me. Dolled up, hoping to be the next groupie that bangs Tyler Rutledge, lead singer for Riot, world-famous Rock n’ Roll band managed by the legendary 80s icon, Travis J. It makes me want to puke. You know what they say, some hair of the dog cures what ails you.

So I grab a bottle of whiskey, the good stuff, and start drinking. Chugging it is more accurate, like how someone downs water. I feel the urge to puke again. Am I nervous about the performance? Nah, there's no way. Not after 8 years of constant hustle and grind. Hm, maybe I need something on my stomach? I can't remember the last time I had a meal.

Picking at the banquet-style spread the Catering Department made for me, I grab some crackers and cheese. After swallowing the salty crunchiness, my stomach feels better. See? As good as new.

In a few minutes, I'll be going on stage for the last time. Well, for the foreseeable future, at least. I'd never agree to quit performing. Nope. It would give me too much time to think, and that's something I want to avoid.

I'm trying to relax, no shirt on, surrounded by my expensive equipment and furniture, when there's a knock at the door.

Dammit. So much for relaxing.

"Tyler, you’re up!" Randy Mitchell, Riot’s assistant manager, shouts. He’s always so damn loud.

"I’m coming!" I yell hoarsely after finishing the bottle. It will be my last for a long time.

Randy opens the door and immediately gags. Heh, serves him right. Coming in here screaming, interrupting my peace.

“Ugh, it reeks here.” He groans, pinching his nose in protest. “Are you drinking again?”

I smirk, tossing the expensive glass bottle across the room. It smashes against a chair leg upon impact. “Not anymore.”

He rolls his eyes while retrieving a tin of mints from his pocket.

“Eat these and pretend to be sober, please?” He begs. He's always begging for something. It's kind of pathetic.

Also, Good luck with that whole 'sober' thing. I haven’t been raw and exposed to the pain of my past in a long time, Randy. You know that.

I pop a few of them in my mouth before grabbing my guitar. “Sure, whatever you say.”

"And put on a damn shirt!" He screams, tossing me a black tank top.

With a groan, I shove it over my head. Might as well be naked up there. My body and my tattoos are the only things they seem to care about anyway.

Applause and cheers erupt from behind the black curtain. Ushering their favorite band to the main stage.

Oh well, I guess it’s time to do this. One more time before everything changes.

________

The outside air was full of excitement and energy, every patron clamoring in the expansive space. Dancing, jumping, and screaming for their favorite band. Taking in a deep breath, I join the rest of Riot on stage for the last show we would be playing, at least for now. Each of the guys is decked out in black ripped jeans, denim or leather jackets, and t-shirts that our fashion assistant made for us to commemorate the occasion.

It also happens to be the 8th anniversary celebration. Everyone got one except for me; I missed the appointment. Unfortunate side effect of day drinking. The five of us together look ready to rock the fuck out of L.A., so we do.

Electricity surges through my veins the second my set begins. I shout my lyrics out like a war cry, my heart pumps to the drumbeat, and bass amplifiers rise and fall on cue. It’s intoxicating. A twisted high to which nothing else compares. I glide effortlessly across the stage into my electric guitar solo. The front row is full of sinfully delicious babes decked out in black leather, piercings, messy blonde hair, and large breasts—a buffet fit for a king.

In the dead center, there’s a boy. He’s a teenager with short brunette hair holding up a sleek white and red electric guitar. His haircut was modern and sleek, shaven underneath with gel styling the rest. Next to him is a young woman taking pictures with a silver digital camera. Swaying back and forth to the beat of the music. Because of the crowd and lights, I could barely see her, but when I did, holy shit.

I’m flooded with an intense surge of longing and attraction for this unknown woman, something that hasn’t happened in a long time. Hell, I’m not sure I’ve ever felt exactly like this before.

She isn’t a groupie, that’s for sure. She’s wearing a black band t-shirt that was made for the previous tour. It's tied off at one side to accentuate her slim curves and supple breasts; she's in tight blue jeans that hug her short, lean legs. Her shoes are brand-new grey athletic sneakers.

Her hair is long, wavy, and brunette that falls to her waist, with big, beautiful blue eyes hidden behind her bangs. There is a hint of makeup on her cheeks and eyes. Otherwise, it looks all-natural. She looks like an angel gracing the surface with her presence.

We are not worthy of such beauty.

For the rest of my set, I’m captivated by her. Hypnotized by her. Wanting her. Practicing restraint that I've never had just to be near her.

Ninety minutes later, the concert ends. Covered in sweat and full of adrenaline, I retreat to my room backstage. One long, boiling shower later, I slump down on my couch wearing nothing but a towel. My mind wanders back to Blue Eyes in the front row, mostly if she’s interested in a clothing-optional private meeting.

My lewd thoughts are cut short by a loud knock that came from my door again. It’s Randy again. Dammit Randy!

“Tyler, get dressed.” He shouts, steadily pounding on the wooden frame.

“No. I’m tired.” I reply with a yawn, stretching my arms and legs out. After all that movement, they feel like rocks.

“Yeah, well, we have VIPs today. The tour starts in five minutes.” He explains, rattling the knob.

Oh my fucking God! When is he ever going to leave me alone!?

"Stop fucking with the door!" I shout, storming over there.

I fling it open to let my whiny ass manager in. He always makes things harder than necessary.

“I’m getting ready; just sit tight,” I growl, ripping my towel off.

Randy yelps. "You could give me a warning!" He shields his eyes while I grab clothes.

Sighing, I argue, "You've seen all of our cocks several times. Grow up!"

I pull on a pair of black ripped jeans, a skin-tight black t-shirt, and lace up my favorite combat boots. To appear "proper", I run my hands through my dark blonde hair.

Great, high rollers again. Just what I need to end my crappy evening. Dealing with VIPs is such a pain. They want pictures, autographs, a backstage tour, the whole nine yards. It’s like the world’s most obnoxious interview without press coverage. Guess I should get this over with.

________

I stand in the meet-and-greet area for fifteen minutes. The ‘guests’ didn’t show up yet, so I smoked a cigarette. In the distance, I hear laughter and chatter. It’s Randy, but he isn’t alone. In tow was the teenager with the fancy haircut. He black band shirt, tight black jeans, and brand-new grey athletic shoes. He’s wearing a Diamond Elite Pass on a lanyard around his neck. They are exclusively for our highest-level fan access. He will receive a brief chat, photo op, and two autographs from any band member as per the rules.

He speaks first.

"Oh my God, you’re Tyler Rutledge!" He exclaims with a look of pure joy on his face.

I smirk. It’s nice to hear folks freaking out over meeting me.

"I’m a huge fan; I’ve followed you your whole career. I’m so happy to meet you in person!!" He’s speaking so fast he’s gasping.

And coughing. Lots of coughing.

Uh oh.

His face turns blue for a second before pulling a white puff inhaler out of his pocket. After shaking it vigorously, he took four long puffs from it.

Almost instantly, he regains color.

“Sorry,” He wheezes. “I got too excited.”

“You okay, kid?” I ask with genuine concern on my face. I didn’t want someone to die today.

He laughs and nods.

“Yeah. Anyways,” He says, holding out his hand. “I’m Erik. It’s nice to meet you.”

Dutifully, I shake it with a firm grip.

“It’s nice to meet you, too, Erik. So, are you here alone?” I inquire. I didn’t see anyone with him, and he looked too young to be alone.

He looks around briefly before answering.

“No, my sister brought me here for my birthday. But I haven’t seen her in a while.”

“Congrats, kiddo. How old are you?” I ask with a grin.

“I'm thirteen!” Erik remarks proudly.

Damn, he’s tall for being so young. He towers over me, and I’m six feet.

Wait, his sister? Where is she?

"Erik, oh thank God!" A sweet, bubbly voice screams from afar.

It belongs to none other than the beauty from earlier.

Hot damn, my night just got better.

Right off the bat, I noticed four things. The first is that she’s tiny. Standing easily half a foot shorter than me, her head came to about my chest. The second, her voice has a slight Southern drawl to it; not from around here, I’m guessing. Third she's dressed almost identically to Erik. Lastly, under her sleeve, she has ink. It’s fairly small, but there it is. Two black roses on a black vine that’s made of barbed wire with a sideways crucifix underneath it. An interesting choice for such a sweet little lady.

“You scared me.” She says while tearing up. “I lost track of you in the crowd.”

Erik frowns. “I should’ve held your hand; I’m sorry.”

They hug tightly.

“It’s okay; I’m just glad you didn’t get hurt.” The young woman said, relief washing over her face.

Blue Eyes turns to me and smiles.

“Hi, I’m Alyson.” She waves her petite hands back and forth before gesturing toward the kid. “And this is Erik, my little brother.”

I fling my cigarette on the ground and crush it with my heavy black boot. “We met a second ago, sweetheart.”

She blushes slightly.

Adorable.

“Sorry.” She apologizes, rubbing the back of her head. “Anyways, it’s great to meet you. Erik here loves your music.”

I walk closer to her, stopping just shy of arm’s length. “What about you? Do you like my music too?” My gaze met hers. Those large, expressive orbs were better up close. Pure and innocent like a little girl, yet clear and sparkling like a mountain spring.

She avoids my eye contact when she realizes what I’m up to.

She looks uncomfortable, moving away from me. “Honestly, not really. I’m more of a Classic Rock girl.”

“Like?” I inquire with genuine curiosity. Who could this girl listen to who's better than me?

“Travis J.” She answers with a big smile. “My dad listened to him a lot, so I learned every song, but I also listen to most rock bands from the mid-80s to early 90s, with some heavy metal too.”

I scoff.

Of course, it’s always my old man hogging the spotlight!

“He’s not that great, but hey, who am I to judge your preferences?” I grumble.

She giggles.

What’s so damn funny?

“You sound jealous.” She teases, retrieving a silver camera from her black shoulder strap purse. “Change of subject, could my brother and I get a picture?”

“You’re the VIPs,” I say, gesturing for them to gather around me.

The three of us huddle together for a group picture: I gave my best “rock on” hand symbol, Erik crossed his arms and did a peace sign, and Alyson stuck her tongue out. Then Erik and I pose with our guitars separately. Finally, she and I got one side by side, my arm over her shoulders, kissing her on the cheek. Heat flushes her face, making it as red as a tomato, but I didn’t mind. Being this close, I can smell honey vanilla perfume on her neck. Pure raw temptation told me to lick it, see what she tastes like, but I resisted. Just barely.

Erik pulls a black permanent marker out of his pants. “Could you sign my guitar?”

I smile slightly before taking the reasonably new instrument. It looked like the paint job was retouched and polished to a shine.

“Sure thing.” I quickly jot down my signature with “Happy Birthday, Erik” right below it. He admires my penmanship as if God wrote it, which I also didn’t mind.

“What about you, Alyson?” I ask with a mischievous wink. “You want an autograph?”

“Oh, I don’t have anything to sign.” She answers quickly, shaking her head.

I point at her camera’s satin wrist strap. “How about that?”

She blushes again. “Sure, why not?”

Alyson carefully hands it to me. “Please be careful; it’s an old gift.” She gives me a deadly look as she speaks.

Hm, this little lady has some bite after all.

With a chuckle and nod, I jot down my initials and “stay beautiful” on the strap. And then carefully hand it back to her.

I understand how she feels. If someone were to ruin my mom's music notebook or break Victor's drumstick, I would fucking kill them.

She chuckles. “Cute, thank you.”

“I hate to interrupt, but Tyler is a busy man,” Randy says, tapping his watch impatiently. “So, let’s move on to the tour ASAP.”

I roll my eyes. “Sure, yeah, whatever.”

Have no idea what he's in a rush for. Practically every minute I spend with a VIP pays for his salary.

To be continued...

_____________

This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places, and incidents are fictitious and the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, organizations, or events are entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. Thank you for reading this eBook. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of the author.