Noble Intent: A Friends to Lovers Romance (Rapturous Intent Rockstar Series Book 1)

  NOBLE INTENT

  CADENCE KEYS

  Copyright © 2022 by Cadence Keys

  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.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblances to actual people, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales are entirely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners and are used only for reference.

  Editors: Happily Editing Anns

  Cover Design: Kate Farlow, Y’all. That Graphic

  Created with Vellum

  For my dad, who may not have been the man who gave me his DNA, but who showed me what a father’s love really looked like. Thank you for always making sure I knew I was enough.

  I love you.

  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

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Also by Cadence Keys

  1

  The crowd gathered around my SUV erupts in cheers as I exit from the backseat, my bodyguard already standing by my door. My smile is pasted on my face, and I’m thankful for the sunglasses that hide the dissatisfaction in my eyes at the scene in front of me. The screams from the women being held back by security are nearly deafening as my bodyguard helps guide me safely inside the popular downtown building where I’ll be having my magazine interview and photoshoot today.

  Simone Jacobs, the journalist who’s interviewing me today, meets me inside, a coy smile on her face. “Mr. Bridger, it’s so great to finally meet you. Sorry for all the craziness out there.”

  “How’d they know I’d be here?”

  She’s trained well because her face only freezes for a second before she gives the standard line of bullshit claiming there was some internal memo that accidentally got out. We both know the truth. They wanted extra publicity and they got it. That’s why I’m here after all. For the publicity.

  Some days that’s all my life feels like—some publicity stunt.

  Don’t get me wrong, I love my job. But more and more it feels like just that—a job—instead of the dream come true that it used to be.

  Being a famous rock star isn’t all it is cut out to be. There are perks, sure, but no one tells you about the rest of it. The fact that you can never go anywhere in public without being recognized—and subsequently swarmed—by people wanting something from you, or worse, touching you without your permission. You’re no longer a person to them, you’re an ideal. You’re their chance to be close to fame.

  I remember the feeling well. I remember the first time I met my idol backstage at a concert when we opened for his band. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. I couldn’t understand the jaded look in his eyes at the time, but I get it now.

  Some days I wish I could go back to being that naive Texas boy who thought hitting it big was going to change my life for the better. It changed my life, but I don’t know if I’m better off than I was when I was broke and couch surfing with friends as we’d hop from town to town playing in dive bars. Back when people cared who I was as a person and not just a rock star.

  Simone walks us down a hall and then we’re in a large open room with a couch and some chairs set up in one corner and camera equipment and wardrobe options taking up the rest of the space. I know at least one of our shots will be on the roof with the backdrop of LA behind me; that’s why they picked this specific building to begin with.

  She leads us straight to the couch and chairs and gestures for me to choose where I’d like to sit. I elect a chair, preferring the comfort of knowing she can’t sit right next to me. I’ve had a few journalists try to cross that professional boundary, and while I might have considered it when I was younger and still new to this lifestyle, it’s not something I’m interested in now.

  Meaningless fucks lost their appeal a long time ago.

  She’s still starry-eyed when she sits down and gushes about how she’s such a big fan. I dig deep—deeper than I usually have to—to get into character. To become the Trent Bridger she expects. The only version of Trent Bridger most people expect these days.

  “So, I’ve been wondering this since you guys broke out on the scene a few years ago and blew up. How’d you come up with your band name, Rapturous Intent?”

  I offer her my most charming smile. “It means that we expect the women we’re with to experience rapture when they come. The kind of blinding pleasure that’s so intense, they forget their own name.”

  Her eyes widen, and she nibbles her lip before clearing her throat. “I have no doubt you deliver. So, how did you guys meet? Tristan is your brother, but what about your drummer, Miles Tallon, and bass player, Kasen Stone?”

  “Tristan is my younger brother, and we went to high school with Miles and Kasen. I first met them in band class my freshman year. Miles was a sophomore, and Tristan and I had been playing together and writing songs for a couple of years, but more as a hobby than anything serious. Then when Tristan finally came to our high school—Kasen and I were juniors—we decided to take it a little more seriously. We played local shows until Tristan graduated and then his best friend, Robbie Nolan, became our band manager and got us booked at a bunch of different smaller venues all over the country. We did tours like that for a year or two before we got the chance to open for a fairly popular band, and that kind of opened the door for us. We started getting more gigs and then got signed with our label, and the rest is history.”

  “And you and your brother are the main songwriters, correct?”

  “Yep. We’ve been writing together since we were eleven and thirteen respectively. We’ve perfected our process over the years, and it hasn’t let us down yet.”

  “No, it certainly hasn’t. Your latest single has been number one on the charts for eight weeks straight. And your upcoming tour sold out in minutes. How does it feel to know you’ve become one of the most famous bands in history? I mean, people are comparing you to Foo Fighters.”

  My body warms at that comparison. It started with our last single and has been making the rounds in the press. It’s probably the single greatest compliment I’ve ever been given in this industry because that band was definitely a huge influence on me growing up.

  “It’s a huge honor to be compared to people I admire so much, and it’s a distinction I always dreamed of but never thought we’d actually achieve.”

  If only it made up for the empty feeling that comes whenever I leave the stage. The isolation I feel even when I’m in a crowd of people, and the unending loneliness when I realize I’ll likely never find someone who truly wants to know me, the real me.

  If such a woman exists, I’ve yet to find her.

  Every woman I’ve dated in the past few years has ended up wanting some part of my fame—whether it was to make Hollywood connections or just to rub elbows with other rock stars. None of them have really cared about me for me. They just wanted to say they dated the Trent Bridger.

  My stomach sours because I hate feeling ungrateful for this crazy wonderful life I live, filled with more luxury than I ever dreamed of. But more and more lately I miss the simplicity of my life before I was famous.

  “Here’s another one I’m dying to know.” Her eyes spark mischievously. “What’s the wildest thing that’s ever happened on tour?”

  I rub my chin like I have to think about which story to tell her. I can imagine what she thinks would be wild, but it’s probably tame compared to some of the stories I could tell her. Like the time I showed up to my hotel room to find a naked groupie on my bed with rose petals and my name tattooed on her body. Or the time I walked into a popular coffee chain to grab a coffee after a long night recording in the studio and had a woman walk up to me and grope my dick through my jeans and proposition me. No, she probably wants some wild story about the band. But Kasen’s a party boy, and I don’t particularly want to get into his history of drug use. Tristan is a playboy, but only because he can’t have the one woman he’s actually in love with.
And Miles…well, let’s just say Miles has quite the adventurous sex life, which is something you’d never guess based on his normally chill, stoner-esque personality. That man likes it dirty.

  But none of those stories are mine to tell.

  So instead, I lean forward like I’m about to tell her the best secret of her life and whisper seductively, “What happens on the road, stays on the road, darlin’.”

  Her lips part and her breath quickens—just the reaction I was going for. I sit back in my chair, and it takes her a moment before she returns to her own upright position, her eyes still a little distant like she’s imagining a lot of naughty things that might happen on the road.

  She’s probably not too far off from the truth.

  She clears her throat again, clearly trying to regain her composure, but her husky voice gives her away when she speaks. “I’ve got just a few more questions, and then we’ll move to your photoshoot.”

  My body already feels exhausted from having to maintain this persona and pretend like I’m into this whole interview, but this is what I signed up for.

  If only someone had told me to read the fine print of becoming famous.

  2

  The room erupts in applause as I stare in dismal shock. Everything feels like a blur as I watch Brad—the man I dated for nearly a year and thought I was going to marry—hold up Shelly’s left hand for the whole room. Nearly everyone who works for VibeTV, the streaming service that’s said to be the next Netflix, is present in the massive auditorium that the company uses to preview final cuts of upcoming releases and for big staff announcements. Today the announcement seems to be that Brad has ripped my heart out—the evidence being the insanely oversized rock of a diamond engagement ring sitting on Shelly’s left hand.

  I feel like I’m going to be sick.

  But I can’t look away. It’s my own personal train wreck. I’m fighting back the urge to cover my face with my hands and peek between my fingers so I can still see what’s going on, but I’m in such shock I can’t move. My arms rest heavily against my side, my feet are glued to the floor, and my heart feels like it either fell like a stone into my stomach or disintegrated entirely—I can’t quite tell.

  It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He said he wanted some time apart to figure himself out. He told me he loved me but he wasn’t the marrying kind.

  And I’m the fool who fell for it. When will I ever learn that men are apparently nothing but liars?

  He smiles down at Shelly and winks at her—fucking winks at her! I’m the one he used to wink at. He used to save all those sultry, happy smiles for me. What the fuck is even happening? My utter heartbreak and betrayal quickly morph into anger. I can’t believe he didn’t even have the decency to give me a heads-up. Everyone knows that we were together for nine months. He’s only been with Shelly for like two fricking seconds!

  Okay, so it’s been a month, but still. What the actual fuck? I knew I never should’ve caved. I had rules against dating guys I worked with for a reason, but Brad was so convincing. He spent months pursuing me relentlessly before I even agreed to go out with him, making me feel special and telling me over and over again that he really felt like we were kindred spirits meant to be together.

  What a load of horseshit.

  I can feel my emotions rollercoastering around my body—one minute furious, the next devastated. Tears burn at the back of my eyes, but I refuse to cry in front of my coworkers. I’m not that girl. Hell, I rarely cry at all.

  I watch Brad and Shelly smile at everyone in our office. Shelly’s curly blonde hair and saccharine grin make me want to scream and rage, but instead I continue to stand here, watching, waiting for someone to tell me this is some big cosmic joke.

  This is not happening.

  I can’t believe this is happening.

  I’m suddenly grateful I never told my brother about Brad because I’m certain he’d kill him if he knew. Will has always been protective of me. We’re only eleven months apart in age, and after our dad left when I was four, he took over the job of protecting me, our older sister, Lainey, and younger sister, Elise. In the past few years, I’ve grown more hesitant about letting the guys I date meet my brother, partly because he can be so overprotective, but also because the guys I’ve dated have been one giant disappointment after another.

  By the time I was ready to introduce Brad to Will, things had started to feel off. Brad was pulling away and working more and more, and then suddenly he was saying he needed a little break to get his head sorted. Clearly he sorted his head right up Shelly’s ass.

  As people around me move closer toward the happy couple—barf—I feel my body finally loosen up and quickly hightail it out of there. No way will I be congratulating them.

  Not today.

  I’ll be a bigger person later, but today I’m going to be small and miserable. Pushing past the dozens of coworkers swarming around trying to congratulate Brad and Shelly, I manage to make it outside our office building in Santa Monica barely holding onto my sanity. How the fuck could Brad blindside me like this? If he had no intention of us ever getting back together, why has he been stringing me along since he broke up with me two months ago?

  My heart aches at the idea that he was laughing at me behind my back—like I was some joke. Oh, look at how I can keep the foolish woman on my line like a fish with bait. Every warning sign and red flag comes flashing back to me as I replay the nine months we were together and the six months before that when he was wooing me. He pursued me with a tenacity that I’d never experienced from a man before.

  After a while it became impossible to resist. And while I’m not a fan of becoming office gossip, it was hard to keep an office romance like ours a secret after how open he’d been in his pursuit of me. And it was refreshing to be with a guy so put-together after dating a bunch of losers who would always conveniently “forget” their wallets when we were out to dinner. Or who found ways to undermine my intelligence in nearly microscopic ways that left me feeling small and insignificant by the time they were finished with me.

  I hang my head in shame because it has become painfully obvious that Brad is really no different than any of those guys. I was played. It’s that simple. Once again a man has let me down. Story of my fucking life. It started with my deadbeat dad peacing out when I was four and has been a recurring theme in my life. What is it about me that makes men treat me like I’m disposable?

  Needing more time before I go back to the office, I decide to take an impromptu walk to the promenade. It won’t be busy this time of day, and it’s away from the disgustingly happy couple so that’s what counts.

  I’m lost in my thoughts, remembering all the tender caresses and the hundreds of times Brad told me if he was the marrying kind, I would be the woman he would choose. I shake my head in frustration, the tears officially falling down my face now, which only angers me more. Even if I know it’s stupid to cry over him, I can’t fight the hurt. Why am I never good enough? Why won’t anyone ever stay for me? Fight for me? Tears cascade faster down my face, and I start to notice people gawking at me as they walk past.

  Wonderful. Now I’m the sad, pathetic woman who is crying on a sidewalk in public.

  Could this day get any worse?

  No sooner do I think the words than I bump into a tall figure exiting the building next to me.

  “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry,” I say, the words coming out a little muffled and cracked from the emotion clogging my throat and streaming down my face.

  “Becks?”

  I vaguely recognize the voice, but it can’t be who I think it is. It can’t.