The Other Side of Wrong Read online

  Contents

  About this book

  The Other Side of Wrong

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Dear Reader

  Excerpt

  Other Books

  Bio

  Copyright

  The Other Side of Wrong

  Jake McQuinn’s lived and loved the rock-star lifestyle. But a scandal ripped him away from his band and back home for damage control. His family company could crumble without him. His band’s epic comeback won’t happen without him. How’s he supposed to choose which one to save?

  Cassidy--just one name as befits one of the biggest pop stars on the planet--has discovered the downside to fame. Finding a decent guy to date who understands her demanding career and crazy schedule? Impossible. Until she remembers the rocker who almost rocked her world a few years ago…

  Jake thought he walked away from her for all the right reasons. Cassidy, however, intends to get him back. And she’s going to use his band’s shot at redemption and rock legend status as leverage. If she convinces him to date her again and re-embrace his inner rock star, it’ll be good for both of them? Even better. Doing the right thing for everyone else feels so wrong for Jake. And making a bad decision about hooking up with Cassidy could be the best thing yet…

  THE OTHER SIDE OF WRONG

  by

  Christi Barth

  For Tom, who rocks my world.

  Thank you to Erica Monroe for her mad editing skills that come with a side of encouragement. I’m so grateful to everyone who has followed Riptide’s journey! I’m tempted to keep going and give Jones his own story….

  CHAPTER ONE

  Cassidy glanced over her shoulder at her human wall of a bodyguard. The one standing so close she’d literally elbow him if she so much as scratched her cheek.

  “Matt. Back off. Let’s institute the Catholic school dance rules. Gotta be enough space between us for the Holy Spirit to pass.”

  Matt gave her an exaggerated once-over, taking in her above-the-knee leather boots, red leather miniskirt and low-cut white tank. “Miss Cassidy, I have a feeling the Holy Spirit would take one look at you and keep right on going.”

  “Awww. You do say the sweetest things.” Because she’d escaped the rigidity of her ultra-religious background and gone…a different way. Successfully. And it felt damn good.

  Cassidy relished knowing that she looked like a sex goddess. More to the point, she relished knowing that other people saw her that way. Not just because it helped every album she released go platinum. Not just because it helped sell-out the biggest arenas on every year-long concert tour.

  But because—if her plan worked—her carefully chosen outfit would knock Jake McQuinn on his ass.

  “There’s no crowds, Matt. Nobody knows I’m even in Tennessee, let alone in this hotel that looks like we’re actually at the North Pole.” She rolled her eyes for the fourth time at the garland draped along the balcony railings. The giant Christmas trees filling the lobby. The enormous wreath over the fireplace. Even though it was only the week after Labor Day, for crying out loud!

  “Your fans are everywhere,” he said simply. “You’re walking, gasoline-soaked tinder. One screaming fan could be the spark that lights this whole lobby into a riot.”

  “Your compliments are downgrading drastically. Will you at least go get yourself some lunch when I’m with the band? The Riptide guys have their own security. I’ll be fine.”

  “Nope. You can’t shake me. That’s why you pay me the big bucks. To be the closest man to you at all times.”

  Nope. Cassidy wanted Jake McQuinn to be the closest man to her. Skin-to-skin close. But that little secret was one she decidedly would not share with her bodyguard.

  As soon as he opened the glass door to the pool area, she scanned for Jake’s familiar build. Familiar because she’d spent the last six years since “the incident” following his career. Watching his band’s videos.

  Not in a stalker way. Just…um, aspirationally? The way other women made Pinterest boards of shoes, or nurseries, or possible vacation locations.

  Cassidy had more Jimmy Choos and Loubitins than she could wear. Babies weren’t on her radar at all. And she didn’t have time for a vacation—or the inclination. If there was a foreign city that looked intriguing, it was because they had a big arena and fans hungry to buy high-priced tickets for her concerts. Everything Cassidy did was with an eye to building her brand bigger, her music better.

  It wasn’t just a job. It wasn’t just a passion.

  Music was her life.

  But a life that needed the icing on the cupcake, the double strand of diamonds on the chain, and that was Jake McQuinn.

  Cassidy was tired of being alone. She wanted someone to talk to at night, even it if was via text from seven states away. She wanted a man who understood, and could handle, this crazy business and the insane schedule demands. She wanted the hottest sex of her life.

  Jake McQuinn ticked off all those boxes.

  It was easy to spot the guys from Riptide lounging around the pool. First of all, because Jones’s entire wiry body was one big canvas of tattoos. He had one full sleeve, half on the other arm, a bunch peeking out from his swim trunks and a massive headstone surrounded by roses on his taut abdomen. Cassidy had always wondered what the story was behind it.

  Cam Watson, the lead singer, looked every inch the world famous rock star. A body that deserved to be on ninety foot billboards in only boxer briefs. Sunglasses only making his razor-sharp cheekbones stand out in contrast to full lips that made a girl instantly wonder how they’d feel on her own.

  Even though Cassidy was laser-focused on Jake, it’d be a crime against humanity not to appreciate Cam’s hotness. He was as worthy of appreciation as Michelangelo’s sculpture of David. Or Daniel Craig stalking out of the ocean mostly naked in his first Bond film.

  A screech from the pretty redhead lying next to Cam had Matt crowding in front of her.

  “Omigod, you’re Cassidy. The Cassidy.” The girl in the yellow string bikini thwacked Cam on the belly. “Why didn’t you tell me you were friends with Cassidy?”

  “If I’d know she was going to pop up out of nowhere, I’d have mentioned it.” Cam stood up with his eyebrows raised in surprise. “This is a random surprise, Cassidy.”

  “A good one, I hope.”

  “Looking like that, you bet it is.” Jones—the biggest and most unapologetic horndog in the music world—gave her what he’d probably call an appreciative leer. “How about you strip down and let me rub sunscreen all over that luscious body?”

  “Pretty sure I’d need you to bathe in hand sanitizer first, Jones. How many women did you have your hands on last night?”

  He looked down at his hands, started ticking off fingers, and then gave up. “If I can keep track, then it wasn’t enough, that’s for damn sure.”

  Cassidy laughed. The flirting was harmless and amusing. Deep down, Jones was nothing but respectful to women—unless you gave him a micro-nod of interest.

  Cam gave her a hug, his heat-baked skin so warm against her own. And it was interesting to see the hero-worship in the eyes of the redhead instantly morph to an assessing squint. Clearly Cam’s situation as a bad-boy bachelor of rock had changed.

  “It’s good to see you. Lemme introduce you to Kylie, our intern on this tour. And my girlfriend,
which’ll hopefully outlast the tour.”

  “Very funny. You know you can’t survive without me,” Kylie said, with a sassy glance his way.

  “Very true, Sunshine. Which is why I gave Cassidy here a much shorter hug than normal, and am now stepping away and pulling on a tee shirt. I don’t want to make any waves.”

  “Smart man,” Cassidy said. She shook Kylie’s hand. “Nice to meet you. Even nicer to know Cam’s found someone to make him happy.”

  “Well, he’s gonna get extra happy tonight when I reward him for introducing me to you. I’m a huge fan,” Kylie gushed. “I can’t decide if you’re a better writer or performer, because both aspects are off the hook.”

  “That’s really special. I don’t often get thanked for writing my own songs, so I appreciate it.” Normally Cassidy would spend longer getting to know Cam’s girlfriend, but she was too focused on her goal. With another quick scan of the line of lounge chairs, she asked, “And speaking of writing music…where’s Jake?”

  “Good fucking question,” Jones snorted. For a man who rarely dropped his party persona, there was a surprising depth of seriousness and a bitter tinge to his words.

  “What does that mean? I know you guys subbed in Dylan Royce for a few weeks, but I heard Jake’s back now. And I have a proposition for all of you.”

  Cam’s bare feet slapped against the wet cement as he walked to the umbrella-shaded table. Pouring an iced tea for her, he said, “Our agent informs us that he’ll join Riptide for the last three shows of the tour. But we haven’t seen or talked to Jake since the beginning of August.” His tone was colder than the cubes in her drink.

  Wow. Cam and Jake were best friends. Not to mention, how did you just drop off a tour that was launching a new sound and a potential new album without talking to your band mates? There was clearly one heck of a story there. Probably a landmine of a story that she couldn’t risk going near.

  “In that case, can I run something by the two of you?”

  “Of course. I’m sure as hell curious why you tracked us down all the way in Tennessee.”

  She sat under the umbrella. “I’d like to do some joint concerts with you. It’d be a win-win. I’ll pick up your super fans, and you’ll get to introduce your new sound to mine.”

  Good to his word, Cam pulled a grey Riptide shirt over his head, which slightly muffled his first words. “You know we’re not with a label right now. You know, in fact, that Triangulation was a shitshow of an embarrassment of an album and we lost a ton of fans over it.”

  “Lost ‘em over your stupidity that caused it,” Jones corrected.

  “Just because Jake’s not here doesn’t mean you have to talk for him,” Cam snapped. “I’ve been fucking happy without him constantly throwing that in my face.”

  Cassidy looked back and forth between them avidly, and then over to Kylie. Her face was pinched in discomfort. Oh yeah, there was definitely more of a story here.

  Because, yes, she knew their album had tanked. The oh-so-intriguing revelation of how and why, however, was all new. But the fact they were still raw over it should only help her plan.

  “Yes, I’m well aware you’ve been considered toxic in the industry for a good eighteen months. But word is spreading about your new sound. About how the streaming videos from your small club shows are going viral.” She stroked along the lines of condensation already dripping down the glass. “My guess is that when you do cut another album you’re going to not just rebound, but hit the stratosphere. Again.”

  Cam tossed off his shades. Narrowed those electric blue eyes. “Whose idea was this?”

  “Mine. But I informed my label of my intention. They’re…intrigued.”

  Jones sprang out of his chair. “No fucking way. EmKat Records wants us?” He slapped Cam on the shoulder. Then he grabbed two knives off the table and beat out a fast, hard riff on the top of the pitcher.

  “Simmer down.” Cam grabbed for the knives. It must get old living with a drummer, having them constantly tapping out rhythms. “I don’t see a contract poking out of her purse.”

  “True.” Cassidy appreciated Jones’s enthusiasm as much as Cam’s canny caution. Thriving in this business required both aspects. It was a big reason why Riptide had been her first choice for this joint tour idea.

  That…and their smoking hot keyboardist.

  Cam’s Adam’s apple worked as he slowly drained his glass. Then he exchanged a long look with Jones. Long enough for Cassidy to hear the squeals of a trio of toddlers splashing in the shallow end. Long enough for a bead of sweat to trickle down the vee between her breasts.

  Too bad Jake wasn’t there to lick it off.

  A nod from Jones must’ve signaled the end of their unspoken conversation. Cam turned back to Cassidy, one hand splayed out, palm up. “Say we’re interested. Say the timing works out for a joint tour. If we get in bed with EmKat, we’re going all the way. We’d need them to produce our new album. No corners cut. So how solid an offer is this?”

  “Right now? It’s an idea more than an offer. First, I needed to convince you that it sounds like fun. Second, I need all of Riptide. I won’t do this without Jake on the keyboard.”

  Crossing his arms, Cam said grimly, “Then you’ve got a problem. We don’t have clue one if or when Jake’s actually going to grace us with his presence. No matter what our agent says.”

  Kylie came forward, wrapping a towel around her waist. “Jake’s been away dealing with a family issue.”

  “We’re his family,” Cam ground out between clenched teeth.

  “I know, babe.” She stood on tiptoe to stroke her fingers through his short, dark hair. Then Kylie shared an apologetic half-grin/half-grimace with Cassidy. “He’s at his parent’s house in New Jersey. Not replying to text or calls or emails. From anyone.”

  Cam surged forward a few steps. “You want him? Go and fucking get him. Drag his ass back to us.” He jabbed the tip of his thumb into his sternum. “To where he belongs.”

  Cassidy had no intention of letting Jake ignore her. She did have every intention of getting him and his exceedingly fine ass. “I can swing up there next. Give him the courtesy of a face-to-face invitation, just like I did with you two.”

  “If you get Jake back on stage with us? Unofficially?” Jones clasped his hands at his heart and threw her some major puppy dog eyes. “We’ll owe you so big we’d tour for two years.”

  Dryly, she responded, “We’ll save that for the negotiation table. But for now, you’re interested?”

  After bowing with a flourish, Jones popped up and said, “It sounds like fun.”

  “It sounds like a strategic way to catapult us back where we belong. It sounds like Karma got off her fat ass and is trying to make up for the shitstorm we walked through.” Cam extended a hand. “Get Jake, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

  Cassidy huffed out a short laugh. “Funny, that’s exactly what I was going to say to you.”

  Jake McQuinn leaned over, pushing the shopping cart with the goddamned sticky wheel with his forearms. The position kept his head down, and face mostly covered by the brim of his Mets cap. It was as far as he was willing to go when it came to disguises. All he wanted was to buy a stack of frozen dinners, some bread and lunchmeat, and get out without starting a riot.

  Didn’t sound like too much to ask for, right?

  Last week he’d been stuck in a drugstore for forty-five minutes, snapping selfies with fans and signing prescription bags. The week before? A woman flashed him in the parking lot. Braless. At 9:30 in the morning.

  So yeah, he’d dropped his breakfast sandwich and coffee.

  Jake had also refused to sign her boobs.

  That was a first in his career. Being the keyboardist for Riptide, racking up Grammys and platinum album sales, and selling out worldwide tours meant that signing body parts came with the territory.

  He’d done lots of feet—apparently so that a tattoo artist could then make the signature permanent—a ton of arms, ple
nty of boobs, and anywhere else he could fit a pen. Jake never, ever said no. It made the fans happy. Happy fans bought more music. Simple equation.

  The boobs had been perky, but Jake had a brand new “code of conduct.” Not his words. His lawyer’s. The explicit directive was to not be in any compromising position. Nothing that would look bad if it were caught on camera.

  Funny, since he’d lived the last dozen years of his life doing the opposite. The whole “there is no such thing as bad publicity” angle. Rock stars lived everyone else’s fantasy lives. Jake worked his ass off on the music. But he and the guys played just as hard.

  As Jake waited through checkout, he thought about the time they’d skinny-dipped in the Potomac…and been caught on camera.

  When he, Cam and Jones had taken all the female stars of the latest superhero flick to the Malibu beach for strip poker…and been caught on camera.

  The rehearsal for the Superbowl when all three of them had mooned the press pool, thinking there was no way that much nudity would get past the censors. Each of these escapades had earned them a huge spike in sales.

  But that was Jake’s old life. The one he missed every damn day. Missed like it was an actual limb ripped from him. His new life? Holed up in the New Jersey suburbs and not “causing any ripples,” which was also his lawyer, Victor’s, language.

  No famous music friends allowed to visit, no loud music played that the neighbors might complain about, and above all else, nothing sexual.

  When his lawyer had said that, he’d turned his head to the side, avoiding Jake’s gaze, and clarified with a wince, “That means no women or men.”

  Victor was a tight-assed, old-school homophobic prick. Men didn’t do it for Jake, but Victor’s wince almost made him want to rush right out to the biggest, nastiest leather club in Manhattan and say, “Who wants a piece of this?”

  But that would defeat the purpose behind his self-imposed exile in the hell that was exit Whogivesafuck Jersey.