The Inside Track: A License to Love Novel Read online

  The Inside Track

  A License to Love Novel

  Tamsen Parker

  Editing by Christa Desir: http://editorchrista.com/

  Copy Editing by Rebecca Coffindaffer: https://rebeccacoffindaffer.com/

  Cover by Romanced the Cover: https://romancedbythecover.com/

  * * *

  Copyright © 2019 by Tamsen Parker

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  For Rebecca, because I can’t imagine having published this pile of books without you to fix my commas and add the occasional semicolon.

  Contents

  About This Book

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Love on the Tracks Preview

  Thrown Off Track Preview

  Thank You!

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Tamsen Parker

  About This Book

  Love might mean coming as you are, but staying is a different matter.

  * * *

  Nick Fischer is a screw-up; everyone knows it and they’re not afraid to tell him so. The only thing he’s got going for him is that he plays a reliable rhythm guitar for License to Game, and his big fat bulldog, Princess Fiona, is so ugly she’s cute.

  Dempsey Lawrence is a former child star turned financial advisor, and while she’s curious about the hot mess of a man who’s her co-panelist for a presentation on financial literacy, she has no intention of pursuing anything with him. Too loud, too crass, too wild, Nick is altogether too much. Plus, he’s famous, and she is so over stardom and everything that comes with it.

  Except that when Dempsey gives Nick an inch, he takes a mile, and she finds that she doesn’t mind so much. Until Nick brings the pitfalls of stardom to Dempsey’s doorstep, then all the attraction in the world might not be enough to promise a happily ever after.

  1

  Nick

  * * *

  I fucking love Los Angeles. Where else in the world would it be warm enough in February to jam out with my junk out? On an accordion? In a motherfucking fountain?

  Makes me think of my grandpa. Not the naked part or the fountain part, but the accordion part. Grandpa Moritz loved Lawrence Welk and learned how to play the accordion so he could be just like him—German North-Dakotan made good. He did it, but with machine parts fabrication instead of being a musician, and he moved to Texas to do it. Still loved his accordion, though. Taught me to play when I was a kid. First instrument I ever learned. There’s some trivia for you: Nicolas Knutson Fischer, rhythm guitarist and resident fuck-up of License to Game, first learned to play the accordion, not the guitar.

  Grandpa missed Lawrence Welk so much he made his grandkids play that old-school music, and whichever one of my sisters fit in the ratty-ass sequined dress my mom had found at a tag sale got to be the champagne lady, and the ones who were too little to perform got to blow the bubbles.

  We should have bubbles at LtG shows. There aren’t enough bubbles in the world, and people fucking love bubbles. We would play for Grandpa Moritz for hours. You’d think we woulda gotten bored because what kind of nineties kids would be down with accordions and thrift store costumes, but like I said: bubbles.

  And how thrilled would he be that I am getting to play an accordion Lawrence Welk actually held between his own two hands? How lucky am I that the restaurant I was chilling in with…uh, I don’t know. Whoever they are? Were? They’re awesome because Benji and Zane and Teague and Christian would never let me have this kind of fun. Lucky for me, the guys are all busy. Yep, busy probably fucking or doing whatever else couples do. Wine tastings or picnics or riding a tandem bike or some shit? Gross.

  Which would be the only thing that would make this more awesome. Bet I’d have twice the crowd I do right now—and it’s not a small one—if I had my unicycle. Another talent of mine I don’t make nearly enough use of. What’s the use of knowing all this awesome shit if I don’t get to share it with the whole world?

  “Hey, anyone got a unicycle?”

  Maybe there aren’t enough hipsters in LA for there to be someone with a unicycle in this crowd. Or maybe it’s the people who eat at this restaurant. Kind of Old Hollywood and stuffy but also glam and weirdly kitschy?

  Did anyone famous ride a unicycle? Maybe they have one inside. That’s where I found the accordion anyway. On the wall over one of the booths—except they don’t call them booths in this fancy a restaurant. They call them banquettes. No, wait, there was some other shit over our table. The accordion I found on my way to the bathroom in some sort of little hole in the hallway. A, uh, what do you call it? Alcove? Maybe? Not big enough for a unicycle to fit in. Probably. Maybe I should go look.

  But then I’d get the floor wet? Because I’m naked, which isn’t unusual, and in a fountain, which is more unusual. Gotta be careful, though, because I don’t want to ruin this accordion. It’s a legit piece of Americana, and my grandpa would murder me if he found out I’d damaged something his beloved hero had touched.

  Are accordions like art in museums? Should I not be touching this because the oils from my fingertips are going to cause the…what are the keys of accordions made out of anyway? Ivory? Plastic? Something else? Of all the things Grandpa Moritz taught me about Lawrence Welk and accordions, he never told me that. I could look at my phone, but it’s in my pants, and my pants are… I don’t know, actually. That’s an excellent question.

  But surely, of all the people who are surrounding me, staring at me, someone’s seen them.

  “Hey, guys? Has anyone seen my pants?”

  Maybe someone took them? Wouldn’t be the first time. Good thing this isn’t one of those super-trendy places that doesn’t have tablecloths. Might have to make a tablecloth toga. But it would be really great if people wouldn’t take my clothes. I mean, I’ve got some serious bank so it’s just an inconvenience to buy new clothes, not a money thing. But still. Stealing is a crime, right? Not like borrowing. I didn’t steal this accordion. I’ll give it back when I’m done. Not like the asshole who apparently stole my pants. I should report them.

  And right on time, a squad car pulls up. So great. Maybe there’s a detective in there who could help me find my pants. Wouldn’t that be an awesome TV show? An accordion-playing police officer who solves crimes of fashion passion? But, nah. The people getting out of the squad car are wearing uniforms, and I don’t think detectives do. On all those cop shows, don’t they wear suits and stuff? Or is that just a TV thing? I want my accordion-playing detective to wear a uniform. Because that’d be awesome. No one would expect a police officer to be able to play an accordion.

  Man, this thing is getting heavy. I forgot how much these damn things weigh. And since Benji’s been busy with Jordan, he hasn’t been dragging me to the gym as much. And Teague and Christian have been sexing each other up all the time,
so I haven’t been seeing them as much either. Plus, Christian’s been doing his side-act thing with Dylan, and Zane’s either with Rowan or he’s doing his own thing, and dammit, when did I lose all my friends? This sucks.

  Maybe these police officers would like to be my friends. Because if any of my guys were here, they probably would’ve suggested that climbing into a fountain, naked, with an accordion was maybe not my best idea. Or at least they would’ve held my goddamn pants so some dickwad wouldn’t take them. Fucking pants thieves. That’s just low.

  “Hey, yo, occifers.” Nope, that’s not right. But if we’re gonna be best buds—which we totally are and they can help me make my accordion-playing detective authentic—then I probably don’t need to call them officer. Why can my brain get that right but not my mouth? Maybe it’s getting held up by the booze. Having that many tequila shots was maybe not a great idea, but it sure made things a lot more fun. I don’t like my new friends, the ones I came here with and whose names I…don’t really remember. My old ones were better. Maybe these police guys will be cool. They’re kinda looking like buzzkills, though, the way they part the crowd with their loud voices and try to move everyone along.

  “Aw, come on! We’re not hurting anyone. I just wanted to give these people some value for their money. You know, dinner and a show. Because frankly, the osso bucco here is subpar.”

  The officers exchange a look, and I feel like maybe they could use some more fun in their lives. If a rock star playing Lawrence Welk’s accordion in a fountain with nothing else covering his junk doesn’t make you laugh, I don’t even know what to say. Maybe they’d be more entertained if I coulda gotten my hands on a unicycle.

  One of them says something into the radio at his chest and then comes closer.

  “Mr. Fischer? Would you please—”

  “Hey, you know who I am! That’s awesome. Why don’t you come on up here and we can sing together? You guys know ‘YMCA’? All we need is a fire putter-outer, a construction worker, a cowboy, and…I don’t know the rest. A plumber maybe? Anyone here a plumber?”

  I bang out a passable rendition of the Village People classic on the accordion, which isn’t easy especially because I am, yeah, really frigging plastered. Like outright sloppy. The officers still seem unimpressed.

  “Uh, or maybe if you’re LtG fans, I could play something from our catalogue? It is, if I do say so myself, exteh—extens—it’s really big, okay?”

  Still, nothing. Maybe a dick joke? Because who doesn’t like wang hilarity? No one. Dick jokes are always in season, and how could I not take advantage of having set myself up like that? It’s a “that’s what she said” joke waiting to happen. It’s really big, okay? Classic.

  “But not as big as my cock!” This is what I yell as I lift the accordion over my head, still trying to play “YMCA.” Grandpa Moritz would be so proud.

  Dempsey

  * * *

  The chipper melodic bubble of Skype sounds on my laptop, and I click to answer the call, the familiar face of my former studio teacher, Nina, smiling back at me.

  “So quick to pick up, as always. How are you, dear?”

  I can’t help but smile back. I’m sure her students don’t think so, but Nina is one of the kindest people ever. She has empathy for days and a wicked sense of humor she definitely doesn’t show off at school. Principals aren’t allowed to be funny.

  “I’m fine. How are things with you? Your students haven’t managed to burn down the school yet?”

  “Not for lack of trying. One of the hooligans left a costume over a stage light that was being fixed and nearly started a fire.”

  “Well, shit. I was kidding, but that’s serious. I hope everyone’s okay and there wasn’t any significant damage.”

  Nina waves a manicured hand and rolls her eyes as though this happens all the time; it’s just another day. With teenagers, it probably is. “Luckily they had the presence of mind to grab the fire extinguisher and it got put out quickly, but the light and the costume are ruined. The responsible parties will be staying after school to make up for their errors.”

  Tough but fair, as much as I would expect from Nina.

  “And how are things coming for next week? You have the lineup and the timing all set, right? You’ve got Jerry again?”

  Another roll of her eyes. Which is pretty much how I feel toward Jerry as well. Guy knows his stuff but is about as engaging as a cucumber.

  “Yes, Jerry will be joining us. I’m putting him first in the lineup because the odds are better the kids won’t nod off than if I put him at the end. Then I’ve got this star-in-trouble fuckboy who I agreed to take because he’s got to do some community service.”

  I stifle a laugh because it still makes me giggle when Nina swears in front of me. We’re both adults with careers now, but she’d been one of my studio teachers—one of the good ones who’d tried to actually protect me from the ridiculous demands of the studio and make sure I kept up with my schoolwork and got a reasonable amount of sleep, which of course meant she got fired pretty quickly.

  She hadn’t stuck around being a studio teacher for much longer than that because it’s a rough gig. Feeling like you have ten thousand responsibilities to ten thousand different parties and never feeling like you’re succeeding at any of them is basically what you sign up for. I sure as hell couldn’t have stayed in that game as long as she had, at least not without developing a serious drinking problem. I mean, I did that anyway, without the teacher part. But while Nina probably has a nice glass of Malbec at the end of the day, I’m sure she imbibes responsibly. Which I’m capable of now, too, partially thanks to her.

  Nina continues, huffing dramatically. “He got arrested for being naked in a fountain in front of Conrad’s. Lucky for him, the restaurant didn’t also elect to press charges for his attempted theft of Lawrence Welk’s accordion.”

  What the actual fuck? I know that restaurant and I know that fountain. And he… Whatever. Like she said, typical Hollywood fuckboy. But it could be a lot worse. At least he’ll keep the student body awake in between Jerry and me. Also, glass houses and all that. I am in absolutely no position to be throwing stones at this guy. Which I remind Nina of.

  “You remember I wasn’t so different than that back in the day, right?”

  “Lauren,” she says, pointing a pen at me and giving me that teacher face that still makes me sit up straighter. That and her calling me Lauren. She’s one of the only people I allow to do that anymore. “You were never like this guy when you were my student.”

  I bite my tongue on the “Yeah, but it wasn’t so long after that I was precisely like this guy,” because we both know that well enough. I do, however, remind myself with a deep breath that it doesn’t matter anymore. That with a lot of help from a lot of people—some of it ongoing—I’m a responsible and productive adult. One who is going to pay back one of the people who helped me fix my life by wrapping up a talk for her in a professional, but still engaging, manner after this spoiled, rich fuck-up has likely made a mess—hopefully not as big as the one that got him there in the first place.

  2

  Nick

  * * *

  I didn’t like high school the first time around, and I’m not liking it any better now. The smell of the gym is the same—bad, like socks left in a locker for way too long and kids who haven’t gotten into the habit of putting on deodorant yet. Why couldn’t they have put us in the theater? I’d feel better there. This is a performing arts school, after all.

  All things considered, though, I guess I should be grateful that Stan and my lawyers wrangled me this cushy community service gig instead of picking up trash on the side of a highway or some shit. Also, orange isn’t really my color. Do prisoners still have to wear jumpsuits? Except I wouldn’t be a prisoner. I’m just a run-of-the-mill fuck-up—no, that’s not fair. I’m actually an extraordinary fuck-up whose friends haven’t been around as much lately to keep me in line because they’re all in looooove.

&nbs
p; Which is how I’ve ended up on this damn uncomfortable folding chair in a stank-ass gym in front of a school full of kids who want to go into the performing arts. We’re all trying not to fall the fuck asleep while an accountant drones on about tax law. Even though he’s said many, many times that this doesn’t technically constitute tax advice. For fuck’s sake, dude, we got it. Then why, for the love of Lawrence Welk, are you here if all you’re saying is useless shit?

  I’ve tuned him out and am looking around the place, gaze skimming over the kids to the gym equipment. They’ve got some ropes hanging from the ceiling like they had in our high school gym back in Texas. Could I still haul my way up one of those things? Maybe. Worth a shot. I’d rather be doing that than listening to this never-ending—

  Applause sounds in the gym. Not a lot, more like scattershot and—can applause sound relieved or desperate? Almost like, For fuck’s sake, clap so the guy knows we know he’s done. If you do nothing, he might start talking again. That’s sad. I don’t know if I could keep doing my job if I consistently got such a lukewarm reception. Although to be fair, guy’s probably used to sitting in an office staring at a screen all day, so maybe he feels like a golden god now that he’s got a gym full of teenagers clapping for him, no matter how lackluster the applause is.