Crazy Love Read online

  Table of Contents

  -Title Page-

  -About the Book-

  -The Bad Boys of Brit Pop-

  -1: Nathaniel-

  -2: Loveday-

  -3: Nathaniel-

  -4: Loveday-

  -5: Nathaniel-

  -6: Nathaniel-

  -7: Loveday-

  -8: Nathaniel-

  -9: Loveday-

  -10: Nathaniel-

  -11: Loveday-

  -12: Nathaniel-

  -13: Loveday-

  -14: Nathaniel-

  -15: Nathaniel-

  -author’s note-

  -Join my Facebook Reader Group!-

  -About the Author-

  -Also By Madelynne Ellis-

  Copyright

  Crazy Love

  The Bad Boys of Brit Pop

  Madelynne Ellis

  Website | Facebook | Newsletter | VIP Lounge

  -About the Book-

  Meet the Bad Boys of Brit Pop!

  Hot, naughty, dirty & funny... with an English accent.

  Nate's band has one chance to impress the music mogul who can catapult them into the limelight. Right on cue, he's hit with the double whammy of an off-the-rails bass-player, and a missing melody.

  Loveday Trevaskis is the bassist for their biggest rival, all girl band Bitch Slap, and the bad girl who cranks Nate's libido to eleven. Could she also be the key to nailing the deal?

  -The Bad Boys of Brit Pop-

  Paradise Kiss

  Nathaniel Darke

  Dane Darke

  Edward (Teddy) Knox

  Joel Ashton

  Bitch Slap

  Loveday Trevaskis

  Jessie Lyn

  Ivy Dalton

  -1-

  Nathaniel Darke

  “Sign it with big smoochy kisses.”

  I pause when I hear the footsteps approaching, silver Sharpie poised over the back of a T-shirt that Dane’s current squeeze is modelling. Officially, she’s running the merchandise table for tonight’s gig, but it’s hard to see how she’s going to shift much stuff while her lips are glued to those of my idiot younger brother.

  I glance upward without raising my head, unsurprised by what I find. This showdown was scheduled the moment I saw Bitch Slap were on tonight’s billing. If I was a good brother, I’d give Dane a kick, but we’re not exactly seeing eye-to-eye at the moment. Not after the bastard blew me off and left me to talk to the music execs alone while he did the horizontal mambo with a girl he’d picked up in the taxi rank. Not this girl—the current one he’s playing throat hockey with—or one of the three rock chicks approaching. At least, I don’t think it was. With Dane, it’s hard to predict, especially of late.

  “Hi, Jess,” he says, coming up for air right before she strikes.

  Oh, yes!

  Right hook.

  Smack on the nose.

  No one can accuse Jessie Lyn of hitting like a girl. There’s power enough in her skinny frame to lay most guys out cold.

  Dane’s head snaps backward. The girl in between them yelps, then makes a sensible choice and ducks before Jessie decides on a follow up.

  Instead, Ms. Lyn contents herself with a growl that sounds an awful lot like “Bastard, fuckwit, shit prick!”

  I can’t honestly disagree with most of those.

  “What the fuck?” Dane yells.

  Aw, shit!

  Dane only goes and wallops her right back. Fucking dickwad of a brother. I’m not saying he should stand around and take it, but striking a woman, even when provoked, is plain barbaric.

  I’m going to have to friggin’ intervene.

  Then again, given that it’s three against one, maybe just sitting tight exactly where I am, is a better plan.

  Jessie recoils like a spring, fists raised ready to block anything else that’s coming. Her two band mates, girls I’ve never clapped eyes on before, but who look as if they’ll happily put his eyes out, and then stuff his dick down his own throat, circle in from the sides, velociraptor-style.

  “Do you want to tell me what your fucking problem is?” Dane yells, while throwing me a side-eye.

  Like I’m actually going to provide him with back-up.

  Well, I might if things get serious. I do need him in full working order for the gig tonight given everything that’s at stake.

  I dip my chin and pucker my lips into a kiss, letting him know I’m keeping Caitlyn safe. Not that I imagine Dane recalls her name. Apparently, it’s old-fashioned to want to know whose mouth you’re tasting. Guess I’m plain archaic.

  Meanwhile, Caitlyn has wedged herself between my feet and the end of the merchandise table.

  “Hypocritical Bitch,” Jessie yells.

  It’s a storming song. Not one of our best, but definitely Dane’s best offering.

  “What about it?”

  Jessie’s eyebrow’s shoot up her forehead, because, yeah, we all know it’s about her. I know, Knox and Joel know, Jessie and her two pals, hell, even Caitlyn knows, and I’m not sure she’d heard anything by us prior to an hour ago. Anyone who’s ever heard the track knows, because while the lyrics stop short of actually mentioning Jessie by name. He only went and slapped her likeness on the goddamned cover sleeve.

  “It’s just a song.” Dane smirks showing far too many teeth. It’ll be his own fault if she knocks a few of them out. “As if you meant enough for me to want to sing about your skinny arse every night.”

  Jessie comes for him like a pinball. Lightning fast. She ignores his face this time, and aims low. Grabs hold of his tackle and squeezes so hard he’ll be singing soprano tonight. Let’s hope Knox is up to filling in on backing vocals, because we need this gig to be A-grade given who’s going to be out there watching.

  Jessie’s two band mates grab his arms, slowing Dane’s retaliatory swings down to bullet time micro-movements. He’s getting his arse whooped, and he at least partially deserves it.

  It’s only when they crash into the table, and buttons, pens and download codes go flying that I decide it’s time to send them all back to their respective corners. “Can’t we discuss this reasonably?”

  “You expect him to be reasonable?” Jessie yaps.

  Dane makes an unsavoury snorting noise. “I’m not the one who walked out because band practice was eating up all the time we could’ve had together, and then started my own fucking band.”

  I didn’t actually know that bit. I’d kind of figured it from the lyrics, but Dane’s not exactly a man of many words, not when it comes to emotional shit. I put that down to us having weathered too bloody much of it. Talking it over never provided us with any sort of solution. Putting it down on paper as lyrics, that’s a whole other story. It was…is our ticket out of the shit, because while we currently have a foot on the rung, I’m not interested in hanging on, being half-way up or even at the top without a fucking enormous safety harness and a dozen karabiners holding me in place. We’re so close to that point, I can almost taste it in the air—a subtle metallic tang, with a dash of electric spice.

  Tonight’s the night when we move out of the kiddie league and into the premiership.

  “You are so fucking dead, Daniel Darke,” Jessie hollers, leaning right into Dane’s face.

  Looking at them almost lip to lip, it’s a toss-up whether they’re going to kill one another, or fuck each other senseless. If there wasn’t an audience they could lose face in front of, I’d bet on the latter.

  “Leave it, Jess. He’s not fucking worth it.” This from the red hot pixie with the bright gold hair. “We’re on in twenty minutes.”

  I’m genuinely astonished, when this simple tap on the shoulder makes Jessie back right up.

  “Yeah, you’re right, of course.” She brushes palms with her frien
d, like a match-point has just been scored.

  Dane seems equally surprised when the three women link arms and head for the stands.

  Perhaps he ought to be relieved he came off relatively unscathed, although he’s down anyone to face suck, because Caitlyn suddenly decides to show supreme dedication to restoring our merchandise to its rightful place on the table, and not scattered across the whole bloody front of house.

  “You might have weighed in,” Dane bitches.

  “You might consider keeping your fists to yourself.”

  “She hit me first.”

  I shake my head because that still doesn’t make it right. “You have at least 60 pounds on her. And you knew how she’d react once she got wind of that track.” The same way anyone who wasn’t simply going to curl up and die would react.

  “It’s a good track,” he snarls defensively.

  “Did I say otherwise?”

  “We’re still opening with it, right?”

  He’s a glutton for punishment, my brother. “Maybe it’d make more sense to end with it. If you want to cause a riot, at least do it when we’re about to walk off stage, not before we play our set. The point is to get our music heard.”

  “Second to last,” he negotiates. “Then we can reprise it for the encore.”

  If we get called back for an encore, he can play whatever the fucking hell he likes.

  -2-

  Loveday Trevaskis

  “Let me look at that?”

  After Jessie’s punch up, the three of us retreat to the ladies’ bathroom. There’s no point trying to hustle our way into the dressing room. With this many bands on stage, space is at a premium which means only the top acts have any sort of official spot in which to get ready and chill. I’m not sure what the rest of us are supposed to do, mill about in the corridors, I guess. Anyway, we’ve co-opted the backstage ladies’ loos. Since most of the bands are all male, it’s not put anyone’s nose out of joint.

  Jessie’s nose is thankfully still in its right location. She inspects it in the mirror over the sink by wriggling the end. I’m not so sure it’s her nose she needs to be worrying about. Her eyes are puffy. She burst into tears the moment she was out of sight of knob-head, and she’s going to have a stonking great bruise come tomorrow morning that no amount of foundation will hide. Right now, it’s just red and angry, exactly like the rest of her.

  “We’re going to do it,” she insists through gritted teeth. As if there was any doubt that we wouldn’t prior to this point.

  I turn her away from the mirror and press a wad of wetted paper towels over her jaw where the blow actually hit.

  “Sure we are,” I agree, though I throw a look of dismay in Ivy’s direction. Not that she notices. As usual, she’s glued to her phone, typing missives to nightshift man. “We’re going to go out there and bring the house down, show these fellas how it’s done.”

  “So I can take my knickers off,” Ivy pipes up.

  “Uh, no!” I know Bitch Slap were formed out of rage, but that doesn’t mean we’re not a hundred per cent geared towards making it big, and we’re never going to get a foot in the door if Ivy insists on undressing on stage. The audience don’t need to be seeing her muff while she’s tinkling the keys. I think Ivy sometimes forgets we’re not a political protest collective, and that we are actually in this for the money and at least a shot at the limelight. One of these days, I expect her not to show up, and to discover she’s bought a yak and gone to live in a Tibetan commune with Nightshift.

  “Maybe another time,” Jessie suggests. “I’m not sure the guys here are worthy.”

  “Who was that girl that Dane was with?” Jessie asks a moment later, having straightened out her face and layered on an extra inch of lash extending mascara.

  “No idea.”

  “I hate her.”

  “You don’t hate her. You hate him. Let it go, Jess. Why would you let yourself get hung up on this creep?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t know. I just…I should keep on hating him, right?”

  “Forgetting he ever existed might be a better plan.”

  I say it, but I know she won’t. Same as I know she’ll mention him again within five minutes. In fact, every five minutes for the rest of the night, and that includes the time we’ll be on stage. All she’s done since Bitch Slap formed three months ago is warble on about how big a prick Daniel…Dan…Dane…Darke or whatever the fuck his name happens to be is. Prior to ten minutes ago, I only had her word to go on, having never met Paradise Kiss’s lead guitarist. My opinion hasn’t been elevated any by the experience, but I do want to call her over one particular detail she failed to mention in her various renditions of his prickitude, and that was how good he looks, because the devil’s always in the detail, and it explains a lot about her inability to let go. There’s no denying Dane’s a ridiculously good looking man. Not that I’m interested. Pricks don’t do it for me. All right, sometimes they do. Not for the long term, obviously, but sometimes you get an itch that needs scratching, and one thing I’ve learned about jerks is that they’re easy to pull and easy to let go once the itch is scratched. Not that I’d ever go where a friend has been before. I have principles, and there are enough men in the world that it is unnecessary to complicate friendships. As luck would have it, in this case, Dane doesn’t provide any sort of risk, especially when his equally scrumptious clone exists and isn’t Jessie’s ex.

  “What’s Dane’s brother’s name?” I ask, as if it’s of no genuine consequence, merely a point of passing interest.

  I’m assuming it was his brother standing back and staying out of our earlier spat, because there’s no way two men can look that similar and not be related. They’re so blasted identical, they might even be twins. Same collar-length dark brown hair, that falls exactly so, same chartreuse green eyes as if he’s walked right out of a Poppy Z. Brite novel, and the same hard wiry, physique that makes me tingly inside.

  “Nat,” she replies, squinting in a way that furrows her brows. “Nathan…Nathaniel.”

  Nat—Nathaniel definitely gets my knickers wet. Though obviously, I’m not about to announce that fact, his band and mine being mortal enemies at the mo, but it won’t always be this way. One day, Jessie and Dane will get over themselves, and either hook up again or move on. Meanwhile, having a little late night fantasy material never did a girl any harm.

  My thoughts of back stage diving with Paradise Kiss’s guitarist come vocalist are disrupted by Ivy’s raucous cackling.

  “Nathaniel and Daniel,” she says when I look at her. “They have rhyming names. That’s so fucking cute.”

  It’s something, but cute wasn’t the word I’d use. I bet they hate it, which would explain why Daniel appears to be known as Dane. I reckon their folks must have been crazed hippies or else screw-ups who didn’t give a fuck about the hellish nonsense they’d inflicted on their offspring. I bet they have stupid middle names too.

  “You don’t think it’s cute?”

  I shake my head, lips pursed into a sour smile, and hope to God it hasn’t inspired names of the next generation of Dalton’s. Ivy’s already confessed a rabid desire for quintuplets, with names like Marigold, Moonflower and Lotus. The poor unfortunates are probably morphing into Hob, Nob, Bob, Job and Sob right about now.

  “Why do you want to know about Nate?” Jessie narrows her eyes suspiciously. “You’d better not be thinking of mucking around with him, Loveday Trevaskis. You realise we’re at war, right?”

  “As if. What do you take me for?” It’s not like I’m planning on handing him my number. Sins like Nathaniel Darke are strictly one time affairs, and like dark chocolate, best savoured in itty bitty bites.

  Jessie’s glower doesn’t disperse.

  “Chill, Lynchpin,” I say tossing out her high school nickname. “I was just curious. I like to know the names of the fuckwits I might have to sue.”

  She laughs at that notion, and immediately she’s back to being the fun loving Jessie
, who lived next door to me when we were five.

  “In which case, I’d better give you the full Paradise Kiss run down, because they’re all worthy of that label. The Darke brothers you’ve already met, then there’s Teddy Knox on bass and Joel Aston on drums.”

  “Um hm,” I nod, not really caring about the rest of the band. I mean they’re irrelevant in terms of my idle fantasies. Gangbanging isn’t a big turn on for me. I’m content with the concept of Nathaniel Darke with his shirt pushed up and his tight trousers down.

  “Is it true they’re on the verge of going large?” Ivy asks. “I heard some rumbles to that effect on the way in.”

  “It’s probably just their fans mouthing off. They’re not going anywhere. They haven’t the talent or the looks.”

  She’s definitely mistaken about the latter point, and I’m reserving judgement on the former until after I’ve heard them play. If it does turn out they’re on the cusp of breaking through, then this vendetta against them might not be in our best interests, but Jessie’s too hung up on sticking up two fingers at her ex to care about that, and Ivy has the ambition of a wet noodle when it comes to anything that doesn’t involve making mini-mes with Nightshift. That leaves me as the sole force steering us towards the limelight.

  Guess it’s lucky, I dream big.

  -3-

  Nathaniel Darke

  The real trouble starts when Bitch Slap walk on stage.

  We’re all idiots for imagining Jessie Lyn wouldn’t find a way to retaliate in style. Dane writes a song about her, so she does the same.

  Dane’s lyrics might be angry, but there’s at least of thread of wistfulness and melancholy about the melody courtesy of yours truly, but nobody’s attempted to assuage Jessie’s venom. It’s a full on, full throttle, sledgehammer of a track. Strangely catchy too, as demonstrated by all the air thumping and foot stamping happening in time with the synthesized drum beat.