Boy band baby bump, p.1
Boy Band Baby Bump, page 1
BOY BAND BABY BUMP
GALENTINE’S GROUPIES
FERN FRASER
Copyright © 2024 by Fern Fraser
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.
Editing by Violet Rae
Cover design Nichole Rose
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Epilogue
Galentines Groupies Series
Fern Fraser
1
Shelby
The scent of coconut sunscreen wafts over me as I slip another sundress into my overstuffed suitcase. I let out a long breath, wiping beads of sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. It won’t be long now before I’m poolside at the resort, sipping icy cocktails. I can’t wait. Although I love my job, I need a break after managing the logistics for Eclipse Entertainment Logistics' biggest event last month.
My phone rings. It's Jenna, the person covering for me while I'm on vacation. I take a deep breath. Please let nothing be on fire.
“I hope you're calling to tell me everything is under control,” I say in a singsong voice.
“Shelby, thank God you answered!” Jenna blurts.
Poor thing. I remember experiencing the same panic my first week in this position.
“Deep breath. Walk me through what's going on,” I tell her reassuringly. Keeping an even, understanding tone is crucial in stressful scenarios like this. Losing your cool never helps.
“The roof of the venue we booked for tomorrow's show collapsed from the heavy rain. I'm hustling to secure an alternate location on the fly, but every place I call is already taken.”
As Jenna fills me in on the details, I jot down notes, keeping my tone even. Losing your cool never helps in high-pressure situations. We methodically discuss contingency plans, even finding a tentative backup location that could work on short notice.
“Thank you, Shelby,” Jenna says, sounding relieved.
Crisis averted–for now at least. After hanging up, I toss my phone aside and glance at my open suitcase. The sundresses and floppy hats call to me. But as much as I want to, I can’t switch off.
I spend the next hour typing up additional instructions for Jenna. After sending the email, I return to packing. With a final shove, I zip it closed, the metal teeth coming together with a crisp rasp.
My vacation is back on track. But my relief is short-lived. My phone blares Beyonce's “Run the World (Girls)”—my boss's personalized ringtone.
I answer on the second ring, my vacation wardrobe silently judging me from within the suitcase.
“Shelby, I'm glad I caught you. I need your help with a major client,” Roberto declares without wasting time.
Major clients usually mean significant financial gains, but they also come with long hours and stressful situations.
“I'm always available for Eclipse. How can I assist?”
“A major music client needs an experienced logistics manager for their upcoming stadium tour across America.”
“When?” I ask, injecting enthusiasm into my voice to counteract the strain in Roberto's.
Roberto explains their current tour manager had to back out at the last minute due to a family emergency.
“I know it's out of your usual scope,” my boss continues, “but I need someone I can trust, and I believe you can handle it.”
Touring with a band sounds daunting, yet here I am, considering it.
“Go on,” I encourage, absentmindedly pulling at the hem of the sundress I won't be wearing anytime soon. Who needs a tan? I silently ask myself, tossing the sunscreen back into the drawer.
“Full travel expenses, of course, with perks. VIP treatment. And the bonus is substantial. It'll make your bank account sing sweeter than a choirboy on Sunday.” Roberto pauses for effect, but I'm not biting — not yet.
“How substantial?”
My boss, knowing me too well, plays his trump card. “Enough to consider a down payment on that condo you've been eyeing up,” he says triumphantly.
“It's attractive, but–”
“You're perfect for this, Shelby. No strings, no distractions. You can focus solely on the job.”
“Are you saying my love life — or lack of it — is a professional advantage?”
“Absolutely,” he fires back without missing a beat. “No boyfriend to pine over you while you're managing the whims of pop stars.”
“Flattering,” I reply with a light laugh. Meanwhile, I wrack my brain, thinking about who the client could be. “Who is the client?”
“Soul Obsession. And did I mention the VIP passes for your friends?” he says almost casually.
I nearly choke on my tongue. Soul Obsession? The boy band my sister and her friends adored in their teens? I grew up listening to them with Ireland, watching her fawn over the members' glossy posters as she belted out their songs. When we were teenagers, she had pictures of the band members plastered all over her bedroom walls.
VIP passes.
Getting my hands on tour T-shirts for everyone–the OG’s would be awesome, but VIP passes? It’s next level. I love my sister, and being able to do this for her would mean everything to her and to me.
I try to keep my voice cool as I reply, “When you put it that way, how can I say no?”
Roberto whoops. “You're about to become the most envied travel manager in the industry. Your ticket and itinerary are in your inbox. The tour starts in two days. I'll have the contract sent over shortly.”
I’m still reeling. The biggest boy band in the world is currently doing a reunion tour after ten years out of the spotlight.
“Um, okay,” I say on a wobbly breath. “Send me the details, and I’m on it.”
As soon as my boss ends the call, I hit Ireland's name in my favorites.
“Hey, sis!” Ireland answers, bubbly as always.
“Are you sitting down?”
“No, should I be? What's going on? I thought you were packing for your trip?”
“My boss called with a crazy work opportunity. I had to say yes.”
Ireland gasps. “No way! What could be more important than soaking up the sun and scoping hotties by the pool?”
“My vacation is canceled because… I'm going on tour with Soul Obsession.”
A piercing shriek nearly blows out my eardrum. I pull the phone away, grinning.
“Soul Obsession? Shelby, are you serious? Get me an autograph. And take pictures. Oh, my God, I'm hyperventilating!”
“How about you get those autographs yourself?” I ask, my heart pounding.
“Huh?” Ireland’s confusion is clear.
“I may have VIP tickets for you and our friends,” I tease.
“What? Are you kidding? This is a joke, right? Like when you told me I was descended from fairies because my big toe was smaller than my second toe.”
“That was fun for a few weeks.” I grin. “But I wouldn’t joke about something as serious as Soul Obsession, sis. The tickets are part of the deal.”
“Holy crap! Did I ever tell you that you’re the best sister ever?”
I chuckle. “Yep, but it never gets old. How about you set up a call with the girls and I’ll explain everything?”
“Yes! I’ll message our chat group now. Shelbs, you’re gonna have such a great time.”
“Easy, tiger. It's just a job for me. All business,” I say, though the flutter in my chest betrays me.
“Business, schmusiness! This is Soul Obsession we're talking about!”
“I'm freaking out,” I admit, biting my lip. “The logistics are going to be crazy.”
“You've so got this. You're the most organized person ever,” Ireland insists.
A warm glow kindles inside me, pushing some of the lingering doubts into the shadows. “Thanks, sis. That means a lot.”
We chat for a while longer, discussing the upcoming tour stops, and Ireland’s favorite Soul Obsession songs she hopes they’ll perform during the reunion tour. She was as dedicated as a fan could be before they broke up and knew all of the words to every song.
I reminisce with her about some of our great memories of their concerts and music over the years. After geeking out over the band, we finally say our goodbyes so I can start prepping.
Despite the daunting task ahead, I feel energized. Coordinating logistics for Eclipse Entertainment Logistics’ largest client to date could significantly boost my career. And the bonus will put me that much closer to my dream condo.
I put away my bikinis and pack blazers, power banks, and planners. I can take my vacation later. This is too good an opportunity to pass up. And I get to share part of it with my sister and our friends.
Roberto emails the contract, and I pore over it, familiarizing myself with the tour specs. I'm confident in my skills—but intel is vital. Knowing what I'm dealing with could make the difference between smooth sailing and complete chaos.
The following two days fly by in a blur as I prepare for the trip. Ireland’s friends were over the moon when I told them the news on our video chat, and ha ve all made plans to join the tour when and where they can.
Before I know it, I'm arriving at the airport, dressed for battle in a crisp pencil skirt, blazer, and low heels. I make my way through security and find my gate. Settling into the window seat in business class, I take a deep breath and open my laptop.
I start going through the latest Soul Obsession news to ensure I'm fully up to speed before landing. Although I already know all the key details about the band, I want my knowledge to be airtight. This high-profile assignment will test my skills, but I must prove I can handle anything. The real work will begin when we land.
Scanning entertainment sites and fan forums, I review the band's history, current status, and any drama or rumors swirling around the reunion tour.
My gaze drifts over the band lineup. The names stir hazy memories from my adolescence–Crue, Jax, Mason, Asher, and Jameson.
Jameson Munroe.
He's standing beside a private jet, wearing ripped jeans and a beaten-up leather jacket. No longer a fresh-faced teen idol, he oozes rugged bad boy appeal.
The boyish softness is gone, replaced by brooding features—hooded eyes, a Roman nose, and a square jawline darkened by stubble. Heat rises in my cheeks as I study the contours of his face—high cheekbones, full lips curved into a seductive smirk that makes my toes curl. The man looks like sex on legs. I can't believe I never noticed him before.
I stare at a photo of him on stage, guitar slung low across his hips, his tight black t-shirt clinging to his sculpted biceps. The tattoos covering his arms only add to the edgy rock star image. A sharp pang of longing steals my breath. Focus, Shelby.
I continue scrolling through the news feed, but my heart sinks when I see the headline. “Jameson of Soul Obsession Caught in Scandal.”
The article goes into all the sordid details about rap sensation Fuz-E Slip-R, who accuses Jameson of stealing intellectual property. According to the rapper, Jameson Munroe stole his lyrics and melodies for the solo album he plans to release after Soul Obsession's reunion tour.
The Captain announces our descent, jolting me back to reality. I slam my laptop shut, flustered. But as I smooth my hair and straighten my blouse, my heart slams against my ribs.
I expected shenanigans and attitudes—I can handle whatever they throw my way. Soul Obsession didn't hire me for my opinion. Logistics are my superpower, and I'll whip this circus into shape. I'll deliver the best tour Soul Obsession has ever had. And that's a promise.
I disembark with my game face on, ready for business. Wheeling my carry-on, I weave through the crowded terminal toward baggage claim. Before I reach the carousel, a muscular man holding a sign with “Shelby Fitzgerald” printed across the front stops me.
“That’s me,” I say, smiling.
“I’m Xander, Head of Security for the duration of the tour. I'm escorting you to the rehearsal studio.”
Once I've gathered my bags, we head outside to where a sleek black SUV with darkened windows awaits at the curb.
The ride is quiet at first, but I soon strike up a conversation with Xander. We talk about what we need to do, when we need to do it, and how to ensure everything goes off without a hitch during the tour.
“This is it,” Xander says as we pull up to our destination.
Stepping out of the vehicle, I square my shoulders and fix my gaze ahead. This is the chance of a lifetime and this is where the adventure begins.
2
Jameson
The studio door slams open, and our manager storms in, his face redder than Mom's overwatered tomatoes. I brace myself for the onslaught.
“Jameson!” Rick shouts, waving a tabloid in the air like it's the freaking apocalypse. “You're in hot water.”
I feign nonchalance, but my stomach clenches. “What now? A fashion crime? Did I wear socks with sandals?”
“Explain this.”
I snatch the tabloid from Rick, wincing at the headline—Jameson Munroe—The Rip Off Artist–Solo Album Riddled with Stolen Melodies.
“Plagiarism? Seriously?” I mutter, my jaw tight.
Crue shakes his head. “We're on the comeback tour of our careers, and you've got to stir up drama?”
My bandmates are all staring at me now, concern mixed with annoyance on their faces. I slump against the wall, rubbing the cross tattoo on my wrist. Fuck. I don't need this.
“It isn't true. Those songs are mine,” I insist.
“Fuz-E Slip-R says you ripped off his work for your solo album,” Jax pipes up. “What are we supposed to think?”
“That it's bullshit,” I shoot back. “C'mon guys. You know me better than that. I worked my ass off writing new material.”
Asher, our lead singer, folds his arms across his chest. “I don't know, man. Wouldn't be the first time you pulled some sketchy stuff.”
I clench my jaw. I'll admit I haven't always made the best choices, but I'm not a criminal.
“The negative media could cause the label to drop us. So much for the big comeback,” Rick mutters, stalking back and forth. “We gotta issue a statement denying the claims immediately.”
“No way,” I argue. “We stay quiet and let my legal team handle it behind the scenes.”
Rick scowls but doesn't object.
We need this reunion tour to be successful, and I can't mess this up. The guys are counting on me, as much as they want to give me shit right now.
Mason finally speaks up. “It isn't a Soul Obsession album. It's Munroe's solo project. Let him sort his shit out.”
I shoot our drummer, a grateful look. We may clash sometimes, but he's got my back when it counts.
“This scandal had better not tank ticket sales. I'm banking on the payoff,” Jax mutters, his “rebellious” spirit rearing its head. He was always the hothead of the band, but ten years has tempered his wild side. A little. And the money is important, but is that all this reunion means to them?
“Speak for yourself,” I reply, sharper than intended. “Some of us wanted a second chance to make things right.”
Crue scoffs. “Still chasing redemption, Jameson? Face it, those days are behind us. We're cashing in on nostalgia now.”
Crue’s words surprise me. If anyone would understand my predicament, I thought it would be him. The guy is the most empathetic of my band mates.
“The point is, we stick together,” I point out.
“Jameson’s right,” Asher says. “We get ahead of this as a band. No infighting.”
“I didn't want to take legal action, but I'll talk to my lawyer.” I nod, the anger dissipating. “I care about putting on a great show for the fans. One last epic tour for the best damn supporters out there.”
A murmur of assent goes through the group. Underneath the tension, we're all itching to perform and recapture the magic one more time.
“Don't screw this up,” Rick warns.
I meet his gaze unflinchingly. “I won't.”
I've gotten out of worse rumors unscathed—I can handle this. The music comes first, like always. This tour has to go off without a hitch. Anything else isn't an option.
Liam, our music journalist, smiles wryly. “Appearances are everything in this industry.”
Jax gives me a measured look. “A girlfriend could improve your image. Make you seem more mature. Show the public you're settling down.”
“Speaking from experience? I appreciate the whole fake-dating or marriage thing works for some people but that doesn't mean I want a rent-a-girlfriend service to hook me up with a woman.”
I let out a harsh laugh, but instantly feel like an asshole for taking my problems out on Jax. He doesn’t deserve it. I need to man up and face facts. My previous reputation as a troublemaker is the reason this is happening.
Rick's expression remains serious. “It's not a bad idea, Jameson. Showing the public you’re ready to settle down will help get people on your side and repair your reputation.”
I'm almost thirty-four—the party boy shtick is getting old. I'd give anything to meet a woman who wanted me—not my fame or money. But a convenient fake relationship? It'll only dig me deeper.
I frown, crossing my arms. “C'mon, man. You think any sane woman would agree to that kind of arrangement?”
Rick raises an eyebrow. “It could work for an aspiring actress or singer who'd see it as a career boost. And the paycheck we could offer wouldn't hurt.”
