Chapter 1: Welcome To The Circus
Blaire
The muffled roar of the crowd seeped through the concrete walls like thunder just beneath the surface. I smoothed my blazer, crossed one ankle over the other, and waited outside the dressing room door with the posture of someone trying very hard not to look out of place.
This was not my scene.
Neon signs, roadies moving like caffeinated ants, a shirtless drummer jogging past in a cloud of sweat and cigarette smoke—it was chaos dressed up as art. And somewhere behind that heavy black door, the man I was meant to keep in check was either throwing a tantrum or seducing a makeup artist.
Possibly both.
A burly man with a headset finally pushed open the door and gave me a chin nod. “He’s ready. Sort of.”
Sort of?
I stepped inside without hesitation.
The dressing room smelled like leather, aftershave, and something expensive burning. Incense, maybe. Clothes were strewn across a velvet couch like a thrift store exploded, and in the far corner, under dim vanity bulbs, sat Frank Ramone. Shirtless. Covered in tattoos. Holding a bottle of something amber and clearly not water.
He looked up and smiled like I was dessert.
“Please tell me you’re my new stylist,” he said, his voice gravel and velvet at once. “You look like you’ve got a firm hand and great taste in pants.”
“Blaire Cochran,” I said crisply. “Your new assistant.”
He raised an eyebrow and leaned back in his chair, taking a sip of his drink. “Another one? What are we up to now—five? Six?”
“Five,” I replied, unclipping the sleek folder from my arm. “But I plan to be your last.”
Frank gave a low whistle. “Oh, she’s confident. Dangerous combo with those heels.”
I let the corner of my mouth twitch into a smile. Barely. “And you’re thirty minutes behind schedule, Mr. Ramone.”
He snorted. “Frank. Or Rockstar God of Chaos, if you’re feeling formal.”
“I’ll stick with Frank.”
He stood—tall, lean, and completely unapologetic. His jeans were torn at the knees, and the chain at his hip clinked as he moved toward me. Every step he took was pure provocation, like he was daring me to flinch.
I didn’t.
He stopped just close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his dark brown eyes. “You look like you iron your socks.”
“I do.”
He laughed. “Jesus.”
“You have a fifteen-minute interview with Sirius XM in the press lounge, a preshow Q&A at six, and your call time is seven sharp,” I said, handing him a printed itinerary with zero wrinkles. “And yes, I laminated it. You’re welcome.”
He took the page and examined it like it was written in Latin. “You don’t waste time, do you?”
“Neither should you.”
Frank grinned again, wider this time. “I like you. You’re like a sexy little school principal.”
“Tempting,” I said dryly, “but completely inappropriate. Shall we go over the press questions, or are you planning to wing it and spark another PR wildfire?”
He mock-gasped. “You mean the Rolling Stone article didn’t make me look like a gentleman?”
“Frank, you told the reporter that your greatest inspiration was tequila and heartbreak.”
“To be fair, that was an honest answer.”
“Let’s try strategic honesty this time.”
He turned, walking back toward the vanity. “So, Blaire with an i. What’s your story?”
“I’m here to keep you out of trouble.”
“No, I mean the real story. You’re too smart for this gig. You’ve got law school written all over you.”
I paused just a moment too long.
His eyes found mine in the mirror. “Ah. Got it. Wrecked dream, fresh start. Trying to prove something.”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to.
Frank tilted his head. “Okay, Blaire. Let’s play a game.”
“No games.”
“C’mon. You tell me one thing you’re hiding, I’ll tell you one of mine.”
I crossed my arms. “We’re not friends.”
“Yet,” he added with a wink.
I ignored him and glanced at the clock on the wall. “You have ten minutes to change. There’s a clean shirt on the hanger by the door.”
He didn’t move.
“Do I need to dress you myself?” I asked flatly.
Frank broke into another grin. “Would you?”
I stared him down for three long seconds, then walked over to the hanger and tossed the shirt onto his lap. “Put it on. I don’t have time to babysit you.”
He raised his hands in surrender, amused. “You’re gonna be fun.”
“Not here to be fun,” I said, heading for the door. “I’m here to make sure you survive the next leg of your tour without setting something—or someone—on fire.”
“I never start the fires,” he called after me. “Just fan the flames!”
I let the door close behind me and took a steadying breath.
The truth was, I didn’t know if I could handle him.
He was exactly what I’d been warned about: charismatic, unruly, loud, and too attractive for his own good. But I’d done my homework. I knew the pattern—three weeks of rebellion, one week of silence, and then a headline-worthy disaster that ended in someone quitting.
Not this time.
I adjusted my sleeve cuffs and took out my phone, already reviewing the next six hours.
Let him test my limits. Let him flirt and push and try to charm his way out of responsibility.
I wasn’t here to flirt.
I was here to win.
And if Frank Ramone thought I was just another assistant waiting to crumble under the weight of his spotlight, he was going to be sorely disappointed.
