My Stepbrother the Rock Star (Men of Midnight Dreams Book 2) Read online

  My Stepbrother the Rock Star

  Alexandra Ainsworth

  Sanguinity Press

  My Stepbrother the Rock Star Copyright © 2015

  Contents

  Blurb

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Mailing List

  Blurbs for Other Books by Alexandra

  And Last

  Blurb

  Superstar Ezra Williamson is battling some seriously pesky feelings. When his Mom meets the man of her dreams, he’s delighted—until Mr. Stepfather-to-be’s hot son moves into his Santa Monica mansion for the summer, and Ezra’s heart races like it’s never done before.

  Bad boy intern Alec Vandergeld has big problems. His Dad is scamming again, and Alec vows to keep him on the right side of the law, even if it means getting the sexy star to kick them out. Everyone knows Ezra is straight, and should loathe Alec’s inappropriate advances. Instead they become everything stepbrothers should never be.

  If Alec reveals his father is more con man than prince charming, he’ll lose everything. But if he pursues his desires, Ezra’s rock star career will be destroyed. Alec needs to act fast, but there’s no way out…or is there?

  Alec

  Just because Ezra Williamson is in the parking lot does not mean Dad is planning to con him.

  I repeat those words like a damned mantra because right now they’re the only thing keeping me going. I stuff my hands in my pockets, conscious of the weight of my backpack pressing against my spine, and tilt my head a fraction, scanning the Thai restaurant with the greatest discretion I can muster. Golden statues of the Buddha flank the entry, and I try to summon some of the placid indifference on the smiling Buddhas’ faces.

  Not going to happen.

  Because Ezra Williamson is here. Entering this restaurant, in Pasadena, even though the man lives on the coast and should be sauntering around a much more expensive place with an entourage of celebrities and assistants to make him appear perfect.

  Not that Ezra needs any help looking awesome. The man’s bronzed body, blond hair, and lanky, long legs all say perfect, gorgeous, and unobtainable.

  Ezra’s eyes flicker toward me. They’re blue like the ocean on a perfect summer’s day, and heat rises to my neck. I shift my legs and force my attention away from the man.

  My father. That’s who I’m here to see. Not a lost rock star, even if all I want to do is devour him with my eyes.

  I only hope Dad hasn’t concocted some new con scheme. He promised me.

  My gaze darts back to Ezra. His eyes are on me, and my muscles tense, as if each nerve debates whether to storm from the restaurant or approach him. He shifts his muscled body, and I fight to suppress a moan. Going up to him is definitely much, much more appealing than trying to forge a good relationship with Dad.

  The Thai waitress pauses to scrutinize Ezra. She checks him out, and her platter of desserts—ice cream stuffed into coconut shells—wobbles. Bright pastel umbrellas sway on the black and gold tray. Well, she has good taste. Just like me.

  The light from bright-colored lanterns that dangle from the ceiling illuminates each one of Ezra’s features and casts a halo over his crown of golden, tousled curls. Rosebud lips, high cheekbones, and those damned blue eyes amble toward me. My heart speeds like a race car driver.

  But if Ezra is the finish line, I’m not even in the race.

  Because:

  1.) I’m male and Ezra is also distinctly, deliciously male, and not the type who goes for other men.

  2.) I grew up in a trailer park, and Ezra is insanely rich, a rock star who tops the lists of celebrities at Forbes.

  3.) Ezra is gorgeous, and I’m . . .

  I smile. Actually, I’m pretty good-looking myself, even if I haven’t been named one of the top ten sexiest men alive by a famous teen magazine. My muscles are honed from the gym, and I’ve got all the good-looking genes from my dad that secured his position as a practical male gigolo. Tall, dark, and handsome, but in a way that’s more bad boy than suave charmer. No good resembling Dad too much.

  The one thing I’m good at is knowing things, and knowing there’s no way we could ever be together is a lot easier and simpler to understand than all the other things I know. Like engineering. Or how to excel at and then quit JROTC, smashing my dad’s dreams that I’ll ever saunter around in a uniform and that he can ever talk about his son, the marine.

  The waitress swallows hard, and her cherry red-painted mouth drops open. Oh, she recognizes his face.

  She’s pretty, a sorority girl on a part-time job, perhaps, and I wonder if she’ll be brave enough to approach him. Maybe she’s used to having fraternity members quaking when they ask her out and has the sort of well-developed self-confidence guys find attractive.

  Ezra flashes her a bland smile and lifts his gray hood over his head, as if he’s some scruffy college kid, as if he’s some guy like me.

  The distance between Ezra and me narrows with every long stride Ezra makes over the faded carpet of The Dragonfly restaurant. His expensive sneakers strike against the floor, and my chest constricts. It’s one thing seeing Ezra from afar and admiring the man’s wet-dreamingness from a secure distance. Like a television screen. I did that often enough at school, even if boy bands so aren’t my thing.

  Facing the man is quite a different experience. I attempt a smile, but I’m sure my lips pull into something resembling more of a grimace. Strange. I almost always have my cool.

  Ezra’s gaze scrutinizes me, as if he recognize me, when I’m just one of the crazed fans he must encounter all the time. Heat prickles the back of my neck, and I shift my legs in an awkward motion before he disappears into a private room. Well, of course he wouldn’t want to mingle with us mortals.

  Relief hits me. He’s not part of some crazy scheme of my dad’s. I can just be happy I got a chance to admire the man’s hotness up close.

  Dad waves to me from a table, and I move toward him, weaving through the bamboo chairs and tables piled high with rice and noodle dishes. Ginger, coconut, and peanut scents waft through the air, mixing with women wearing clashing perfumes. This is Friday night, date night for the crowd of mostly middle-aged men and women who go here.

  “This used to be a nice restaurant.” A middle-aged woman with dyed auburn hair and a deep tan that can’t be good for her long-term skin health sniffs as I pass her table. Her voice is loud and nasal, and I clench my hands together. “Backpacks . . .”

  I scowl back. And then I remove my backpack after I pass her table because maybe she has a point. I dangle it awkwardly in my hand, and the olive green-and-dirt brown camouflage material doesn’t exactly blend in with the pristine surroundings.

  Dad is dressed as if he just stepped off his yacht, and my stomach plummets. He looks like James Bond when Pierce Brosnan played him, but in slick chinos and a cashmere cable sweater that say dependable instead of player. All Irish charm and absolutely nothing to indicate h
e’s tormented and not to be trusted.

  The last time I saw him happy was before Mom got sick. Since then, I’ve been introduced to a string of women, none of whom ever last, though they always seem to get wealthier and wealthier. Dad’s looks only seem to improve, aided by spa treatments, four hundred dollar haircuts, and the free time to lounge in the sun until his tan turns that perfect shade of golden.

  I don’t want to sit in this restaurant in the middle of Pasadena, and I definitely don’t want to meet his new girlfriend. Margaret is still in rehab, and Margaret, well, she was nice.

  Dad smiles when I sit down, as if we’re best pals and never argued before.

  Perhaps I can talk some sense into him before this woman arrives. See if he’s truly into her or if he’s planning something crazy again, bragging about marrying a woman for her money.

  Dad sips some green tea, and his foot taps against the bamboo floor like it always does when he’s nervous.

  Or maybe he can’t stand the thought of finishing his drink. I mean, when did the man ever like green tea?

  “Alec.” Dad claps me on the shoulder. “Good to see you, son.”

  My lips shift upward, but I don’t feel the least bit happy. “It’s been awhile.”

  Eight months.

  “Yes.” Dad averts his eyes and grabs hold of the porcelain teacup.

  We stare at each other, and the lump in my throat thickens.

  “I met the woman of my dreams.” Dad beams at me, and I want to believe him so badly.

  “That’s great.” I nod at him, but I think my smile tightens.

  “She wanted to meet you.”

  “She’s coming here?” My heart plunges a bit.

  “She likes Thai food.”

  “Okay.”

  “Just so you know,” Dad says, “I graduated summa cum laude from Yale and have an MBA from Harvard.”

  My chest squeezes, as if there’s a damned boa constrictor tightening around me, right here in this restaurant, but it’s only my dad, being disappointing once again.

  “And probably spent the year in between backpacking across Thailand,” I mutter. I smooth my fingers against the white linen tablecloth and then run my hand over the stiffly ironed creases.

  Dad’s eyes glimmer. “Exactly! So proud of you son. But I went through Laos and Cambodia too, because . . .”

  “Why tell one lie if you can tell three?” I finish for him, tempted to stride straight out this door and never have to see Dad again, never have to go through this again.

  “I was going to say bigger is better.” Dad’s smile broadens, and his Kentucky accent comes out, like it always does when he’s excited. “But that works too, son.”

  He taps his large, rugged fingers against a dragonfly painted onto the cup.

  I don’t know how he can stand to drink the bitter drink. “You still in touch with Margaret?”

  Dad slides the cup down, and the porcelain clatters against the saucer. “Alec . . .”

  This time his voice sounds tired, and my chest aches.

  “You know, I’m actually quite content.”

  “I’ve never heard you say that before.” My voice is sarcastic, and I’m cheered to see a flush on his cheekbones.

  “Angela isn’t anything like . . .” His voice drops off, and I know he’s referring to Margaret. And Jennifer. And Stacey. Each new wife distinguished only by their accounts, each bank account larger than the one before. I know he’s not talking about my mother because she was perfect.

  And she died. I blink. It’s been eight years, but the pain still shatters through me like a grenade. She shouldn’t have died.

  “Anyway.” Dad coughs, and I draw my eyes back to him. “Angela is very nice. And sweet. And lovely.”

  His voice drifts up as he says the last words, and a smile I haven’t seen in a long time appears on his face. He’s so convincing.

  I sigh and push my backpack under the table. “So what’s she like?”

  He smiles again. “She’s perfect. What I’ve always looked for.”

  “You mean who, not what.”

  His forehead scrunches together.

  “She’s a person, Dad. Not a thing.” Not a bank account.

  Dad shrugs, and I glance around the room, filled with women with brightly painted wooden necklaces displayed over their deep cleavages, no doubt to show how liberal and well traveled they are as they eat their green or yellow curries and sip their coconut cocktails. “So, um, where is she?”

  “Anxious, aren’t you?” Dad’s lips turn up.

  “Just want to get this over with,” I say, and just as quickly, Dad’s lips turn down.

  “She’s waiting with her son in one of the private rooms.”

  Private room? I frown. “Just in case I start yelling at her?”

  “No . . . it’s more because of her son.”

  “He’s going to start yelling?” I raise my eyebrows. “Maybe I should be impressed after all. I guess he has some good sense.”

  “He’s very sweet, actually.” Dad tilts his head at me, and I shiver under his appraising gaze. “You’ll like him. He just needs privacy.”

  Privacy. The word cuts through me.

  “Because he’s a celebrity?” I say carefully, the memory of Ezra entering a back room in the restaurant still strong. I sweep my fingers along the side of the chair, and a lump in my throat grows. I don’t like the sound of this at all.

  Dad chuckles. “Guess you’ll have to wait to meet him.”

  “Didn’t you say he’s my age?” I narrow my eyes, and my head aches, but I can’t blame it on the sound of the chatter from the other diners.

  “Uh-huh.”

  I search my mind for Ezra’s age. He’s been famous for what feels like forever, but he probably is just around my age. Except he was making millions when I was living in a trailer.

  “He lives with his mom, so you’ll be seeing a lot of him this summer.” Dad smiles. “It’s great you got that engineering internship in Los Angeles.”

  Okay, can’t be Ezra. That’s for sure. I don’t follow Hollywood gossip, though maybe I should if I get to see pictures of good-looking guys all the time, but the man is insanely rich. Not the type to live at home with his mom. At all.

  My shoulders relax, and my heartbeat stops its manic pace. Even Dad wouldn’t go after a man as insanely rich and famous as Ezra. Even Dad is too smart for that.

  “I didn’t know you would be in Los Angeles too,” I say, changing the subject.

  Dad grins. “Sometimes everything works out. Which reminds me . . . I took the liberty of canceling the lease on your apartment for the summer.”

  “What?” My mouth opens, and my heartbeat races just as quickly as before. No time to rest when Dad’s around. It’s almost enough to make me laugh, if it weren’t so horrible. “How could you cancel my lease? Where will I live?”

  “With me, of course.” Dad chuckles, and he takes another sip of tea. “It will be nice to have you nearby.”

  “But Dad . . .” This was supposed to be my first summer living on my own in a cosmopolitan city. “I need to call the housing agency.”

  “Don’t bother,” Dad says, but I pick up my cell phone and rush outside. My new landlord expresses surprise at hearing from me and that I’m not grateful they were able to slide someone else into the space from a long waiting list, so they refunded me my deposit. Dad didn’t just cancel for me; he used my name to cancel for me. I hate that the man is so smart.

  I return to the restaurant, homeless. My internship starts soon —I don’t have time to search for a new place. My focus is on doing well, gaining crucial job experience before I graduate in December, not stressing about housing. The landlord doesn’t have any more rooms available, nor could he give me any leads.

  My first time living in a big city, and Dad’s going to be there.

  There’s no handsome rock star in the hallway when I enter this time, and a wave of longing—for something more—hits me. I don’t want an
other dull summer, putting up with Dad.

  I settle back into my seat, and my mind shifts to Dad’s girlfriend’s son. I flick my gaze to the row of private rooms, and I wonder which one they are in. I don’t feel guilty if Dad sees my frown now. I might just transform it into a scowl. For extra emphasis. “So they’re sitting in there because he’s shy? He should be able to eat in a restaurant with other people.”

  Dad smiles at me. Smiles!

  My fingers clench, and I wish I were at the gym now. Tension rockets through my body, and I would give anything for a punching bag. I can’t believe I’m going to have to make conversation with my dad’s girlfriend and her overgrown son who can’t stand to be around other people.

  “So I guess he doesn’t have a job if he’s still living at home?”

  “I didn’t say that.” Dad clears his throat and leans toward me. Suddenly, he is Dad again. The one who wasn’t afraid to ground me or tell me to do extra chores when I misbehaved. “Now you’re going to have to adjust your attitude before we go in there.”

  I cross my arms and hold them against my chest. My heart pounds hard, as if desperate to signal to Dad that this is a very bad idea.

  “So, um . . .” I fiddle with the coarse napkin and try to distract Dad. “What does she do?”

  “She takes care of her home.”

  “Like a housewife?” I draw back. Maybe she’s not like Margaret and all the others, with substantial bank accounts bolstered by their high-powered careers that gave Dad plenty of time to philander.

  Maybe dad really is in love, just like he says he is. I mean, he has money now, doesn’t he? He doesn’t need to be with her, right? I clear my throat. “I hope you’re happy together.”

  Dad shrugs. His glance is appraising again, and I hate it. “You know . . . you should find someone. A guy . . .”

  Heat creeps up the back of my neck, and I squirm in my bamboo chair. It creaks underneath me. “Dad . . .”

  Dad knows I’m gay, but I still don’t like discussing it with him. Not that I would feel any better if we were talking about girls.