My 3 Rockstar Bosses

CHAPTER ONE

Mason

Another pair of lacey lingerie sailed through across the stage and smacked Trent on the leg.

Ten points!

Trent, the front-man of our band, Alpha Prime, snarled over his shoulder at me. I laughed and kept banging the hell out of the drums because it served him right. After all, my buddy was playing to the crowd. Just minutes earlier, he’d drenched his white T-shirt with a bottle of water and then ripped off the fabric, displaying a rock hard chest and abs.

The asshole was good-looking, even I had to admit.

Bronze skin. Sculpted. Hard muscle everywhere.

And of course, the ladies ate it up, screaming like banshees. They were practically losing it right before us because Alpha Prime is bona fide rock star catnip. If you think the females went wild for the Beatles or New Kids on the Block back in the day, then you’re almost in the ballpark.

We’re ten times that. Fifty times more magnetic.

And the ladies are insane. They go hog wild, ready to sell their firstborns to get their hands on a pair of our concert tickets. Mothers and daughters, hell, even grannies in the crowd were losing their minds, not to mention their panties.

Because our female fans never have any self-control when it comes to their favorite rock stars. Lingerie? Oh, please. That’s just the beginning. Last week, we got back to find two nude girls swimming in our pool, slick and wet like slippery, hairless otters. Plus, Trent threw gasoline on a raging fire, cannonballing into the pool with a roar.

Yeah, this is the life. The rockstar rage that makes us unstoppable. Throwing my head back, I let out a howl to the delighted squeals of the all-female crowd. Sweat poured down my face and the beat pounded through my hard, muscled body. Everyone wanted a career like ours. We owed it to the fans to give it our all.

So yeah, life is good. Better than good. The best. After all, for the past few years, I’ve been the drummer for the hottest band on the scene, with money, girls, and cars galore. Everything at my fingertips.

The guys and I have been on magazine covers. We have billions of dollars in the bank. Plus, all three of us have been on every hot bachelor list in the past five years. We were on top of the world and rockin’ it like kings.

Mostly.

“Alpha Prime!” a group of girls screamed from the front row while flashing their tits.

“Choose me! Eeeee!” hollered another chick, eyes wide and hair wild.

I should have been on top of the world. Yet incredibly, inklings of boredom were beginning to make me dizzy. Right there on stage under the hot spotlights, things were starting to get dull. It seemed impossible, but never say never. Because after five years of dodging dirty panties and every filthy proposition in the book, easy sex was getting old. Maybe you don’t know what you have until it’s gone, but right now, I wasn’t jumping on the carousel.

If I was attracted to skinny, anorexic-looking groupies, then the rock star life would be perfect. That wasn’t my scene, though, because scarecrows did nothing for me. I like them plump and curvy, with a sweet smile and innocent ways.

Nonetheless, there was money to be made. Winking at the ladies like a Lothario, I hooked the panties out of the air with my right hand, all the while hitting the cymbals with my left.

Oh yeah. I got this whole thing down.

The girls in the audience screamed louder as more lingerie flew at us. It was a blizzard of lace and leather.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah!” I growled into the mic along with Nick, our bass player.

We were on fire tonight and the packed amphitheater shivered and shook. I banged on the drums even harder,

creating a storm of beats. The music was thunderous and passionate, but I wasn’t really into it.

It’s sad, really.

Creating and performing is one of my only gifts. Ever since I was a little boy in the basement banging out sloppy beats, it was clear to me that I was meant to be a drummer. The music is my muse, my destiny, and my lover all rolled into one.

It’s the audience that gives me the blues. Screaming, noisy, emaciated chicks don’t give me the rush I need. Not anymore.

But again, there’s money to be made. In the music business, giving the fans what they want is half the battle.

“Tighter, baby!” was my shout, the chorus to our latest hit. “Harder, baby! Yeah!”

I waved a drumstick in the air and twirled the bright purple panties around them. They were practically child-sized. The chick who'd tossed them had to be a double zero—possibly smaller.

Are there negative sizes?

Regardless, it was a show and these women had paid to be entertained. So I flashed my signature smile and killer sapphire eyes, all the while tattoos rippled up my back and arms.

Of course, the females screamed like crazy. That was always the reaction. A balled up piece of paper landed near my foot—probably some girl’s phone number.

Meanwhile, Nick ripped into his bass guitar, scowling. His naked chest rippled with muscle under the lights, blue ink snaking up his arms in two full sleeves.

Shit, that fucker is scary.

The asshole was a beast, like he was ready to start a fight with anyone who dared cross him. The tattoos and the scowl were all part of the look, though, ladies eating it up like the sweetest cream.

Plus, he was an animal on bass.

The girls couldn’t get enough of him or that ink of his. They loved the bad boy persona and the take-no-prisoners frown that decorated every magazine cover. Females screamed even harder, ear-splitting shrieks buzzing in my skull.

But Nick isn’t like me and Trent. He refused to cater to the ladies. Instead, the dude scowled at the audience, declining to touch a single pair of panties that sailed his way.

Of course, the reverse psychology tactic worked like a charm. The girls adored him even more for it, screaming his name hoarsely, waving their arms and jumping up and down. They acted like teenage groupies seeing their favorite band.

Funnily enough, we were their favorite band. I don’t know if it was for the music or our look, but they loved us. The women certainly weren’t young, though. All of our shows were only for people eighteen and older—for obvious reasons.

“Knock it off, dude!” Nick snarled at me once he turned his mouth away from the mic.

“Grow a set and give the girls what they paid for,” I growled right back, drumming away with a pair of panties slung around my wrist. “They don’t come here to watch you glare at them!”

Some of them did, though. Without Nick’s signature scowl, we weren’t Alpha Prime.

Suddenly, a flash in the audience caught my eye— somebody's diamond ring maybe. There was just enough light for me to see a woman in the front row drag off her underwear, struggling in the crowded space. Elbows must have hit her head and torso. There wasn’t much room in the darkened pit below.

Even after that, the blonde was unstoppable. She held the crotch up to her nose and breathed deep like a junkie before winding up and pitching the thong straight at Trent in a whirling fastball.

Growling about sex into the microphone, my buddy stepped back, ducking like a pro.

Smooth, real smooth.

The audience couldn’t tell, but Trent was obviously grossed out, but not because the girl wasn't pretty. Hell, any stroke mag would have made her a cover model. The blonde had it all: big hair, big tits, and puffy lips in a perpetual “O”.