Happily Ever Aftermath: A Romantic Comedy (The Aftermath Series Book 1), page 1
HAPPILY EVER AFTERMATH
A ROMANTIC COMEDY
THE AFTERMATH SERIES
PRU WARREN
Copyright © 2024 by Pru Warren
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 is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by The Killion Group
Published by Qui Legit Regit Press
Alexandria, Virginia
ISBN 979-8-9888041-6-1
Discover other titles by Pru Warren at https://www.pruwarren.com/
053124wch
Created with Vellum
With thanks to Jimmy.
(More about him in the acknowledgment section at the end)
CONTENTS
1. Enter the Dewy-Eyed Fawn
2. The Bold New Project
3. The First Day
4. Atlanta
5. Reconciling Sales
6. The VIP Lounge
7. Welcome Home
8. Late Nights and Early Mornings
9. On Stage
10. Victory
11. The Proper Footwear
12. Cinderella
13. Just for Sleep
14. When the Muse Speaks
15. Miami
16. Things Are Coming Together
17. Montgomery Goes to the Dogs
18. The Lightbulb
19. Lips That Touch Wine
20. St. Louis
21. Off to Dallas
22. Dallas
23. The San Antonio Music Festival
24. The Charm Offensive
25. Sedona
26. And More Sedona
27. Sedona and Beyonda
28. You Can’t Be Serious
29. Pulling It Together
30. Her New Normal
31. His New Normal
32. Los Angeles
33. Who’s Got the Power?
34. Topping That
35. Seattle
36. Family Ties
37. The Mystery
38. The Homeward Slide
39. The Wake-Up Call
40. Washington, D.C
41. The Sweatbox
42. Madison Square Garden
Afterword
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Pru Warren
1
ENTER THE DEWY-EYED FAWN
IAN
She came up the tour-bus stairs with unbearable optimism. A spring in her step, a song in her heart. In an instant, I knew she had a great relationship with her parents and still believed in trusting people.
I had never been that young. My twenty-eight years felt like a hundred.
Then she saw me, the hideous scar down my face on full display. Her eyes widened, and she took an involuntary step back.
And why wouldn’t she? I was Frankenstein’s monster. “Shit,” I muttered. I pulled my hair out of my man bun, but it was too late. She’d seen it.
Next in her line of sight was Archer. The poor girl took in his golden glory and was rendered speechless again. What a contrast we made, my best friend and I. Depths of hell, heights of heaven.
Bambi was having a hard time finding her voice, so it was a lucky thing that the third of our strong trio was at the ready.
“Hi,” Mal said. He stood from the little kitchen banquette and offered her a friendly smile. “I’m normal-looking. You can focus on me.”
“I can, um, I mean . . . oh.” Good manners were having a three-way with horror and lust in her brain.
“What can we do for you?” Mal had an easy attitude. His smile made people overlook the muscles. Like most drummers, Mal was powerfully built, but the sun came out with his grin. “Want to sit? Are you with the record company? Are we leaving early? I thought we still had half an hour before this convoy got rolling.”
“I—oh. Thank you.” She sat in the swivel chair next to me. Easier to look across the bus at Archer. At least she was on my left and wouldn’t have to look at the scar as long as I stayed in profile to her. “I’m supposed to travel on this bus now.”
Her eyes were darting nervously between Archer and me, so she saw his eyebrows go up. Archer looked at Mal and me.
“I thought we were the only ones on bus eight,” he said. “That Bruce guy said.”
“Oh,” she said. She dropped her floral backpack on the floor and pulled out a tablet. “Bruce Cantrell, tour manager, bus two. Yes, it’s here. I was supposed to be on bus two, too—bus two-too, ha ha. No, but Sheree’s personal assistant is taking my place, since Sheree and her new husband want to be in the star coach alone, so bus eight is the first bus with room . . . and that’s your bus. See?”
She held her tablet out hopefully to Archer. He squinted at her with the smile that made girls pass out with lust and refused to reach for the tablet. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
No medical devices needed—I knew he was raising her blood pressure. He’d been doing it since sixth grade. I went back to playing scales on my Olson. E-minor was my current favorite.
“Oh. I’m Nicky. Nicky Swanson. Hello. Um, hello.”
Mal gently took the tablet from her hand and scrolled through the list.
“Look at this,” he said. “This girl has all kinds of information here. Damn, there are eleven buses on this tour and four semis. Shit, the Sheree Untethered tour is like the invasion of Normandy.” He looked up with a grin. “Gentlemen, we’ve moved on from the days of three guys in a minivan. To Aftermath—opening act for the hottest rock star in the world!”
He and Archer cheered, and I nodded. Yep. Great. For two months. Then back to normal.
Mal saw my half scowl. He laughed and turned to Nicky. “That’s Ian,” he said, gesturing to me. “He’s grumpy. Don’t worry about it. The scar is from a mountain-biking disaster last year. You’ll get used to it. It’s healing, but there’s nerve damage, so he can only smile with half his mouth. Or scowl.” I glared at him, and he was unimpressed. “It’s healing. It is.”
It wasn’t. I was doomed forevermore to look like a marionette with half its strings cut. At least it suited my mood.
Mal continued with the introductions. “Ian is our lead guitarist. This ugly fellow is Archer, lead singer and a very indifferent bass player.”
“Hey!” Archer swatted at Mal’s meaty biceps but took the time to tip a wink at Nicky. She gulped and licked her lips.
“And I’m Mal. Drums, of course. Backbone of the band. Strong foundation. One might go so far as to say the musical genius of Aftermath.”
“One might,” Archer said, “if one were something of an idiot. So, what’s your story, Vicky?”
I shook my head but stayed silent. Mal corrected him for me, although he got it wrong too. “She said her name was Becky.”
“It’s Nicky,” she said, showing the first hint of a spine in her emphasis. Good for her. I approved. “Short for Nicola.”
Archer flexed his chest at her. “Now, how did a Nordic princess like you get such an Italian name?” He’d taken to wearing his blond hair quite short (to better contrast with me and my attempt to hide the scar with long, dark hair?), and it showed off the action-hero jawline.
She blustered something about her mother liking the name. He was right. She looked Norwegian or something. Compared to Archer’s goldenness, Nicky’s hair was so blonde it was almost white. Pulled back into a ponytail that added bounce to her perky personality. Short skirt. Good legs. Clunky shoes.
I looked away before she caught me checking her out side-eye.
“Damn.” Mal was still searching Nicky’s tablet. “Sheree’s security keeps two motorcycles in the luggage compartments under her bus. That’s smart. Put her in a full-face helmet and no one in America would recognize her. Sorry, Ian.”
My nose curled with involuntary distaste. I ignored the flash of heat in my skin. Adrenaline. Leftover angst about my mountain-biking trauma.
Mal should have shut up, but instead he shone a blazing spotlight on me when he explained to Nicky. “If he’d been wearing a full-face helmet, he wouldn’t have cut up his face so badly. Still would have broken his collarbone, but the razor-sharp chunk of granite he landed on wouldn’t have sliced half his face off.”
Nicky winced.
“Thanks, Mal,” I grunted. I ran through the notes faster. The only coordination in my life existed between my left and right fingers.
“Does he just play guitar scales like that all day?” Nicky asked Mal. Like I wasn’t there. Like I couldn’t hear her.
“Well, yeah. Couple hours a day at least. It’ll fade into the background. So, tell us about you, Nicky.”
She’d opened her mouth to gush some giddy, silly, happy answer when the bus driver thumped up the stairs. We’d met him when we boarded. Ken. Big slab of a seen-it-all union driver.
“Bus two is looking for someone named Daniel Thorn. Anyone know him?” Ken regarded the four of us with equal disinterest.
“Oh! That’s me!” Nicky held her hand out and Mal surrendered the tablet.
“I thought she said Ricky,” Archer said.
“Nicky. I’m taking Daniel’s place. Should I go to bus two?” She fixed Ken with enormous blue eyes, and he ducked his chin in surprise at the energy of her innocence.
“Are you supposed to be on bus two?” he asked.
“No, I’m in eight now with you guys. I put my suitcase down in the luggage compartment. That’s right, isn’t it?”
“Hold on.” He held up a meaty hand. “We’re scheduled to pull out in twenty minutes, so let’s get the rules of the bus down now. Rule one—nobody poops on the bus. Got it?”
Nicky blinked at him. Mal laughed.
“I’m not kidding,” Ken said, a faint Brooklyn accent slurring the words. “You need to poop, you tell me. I’ll find a rest stop. Anything else, you got the crapper back there. But no crap. Got it?”
“Um, I think I need to go to bus two now.” Nicky looked uneasy; she’d clearly associated “bus two” with childhood’s “number two.” Daddy’s little darling didn’t like any discussion of unpleasant subjects.
“Next rule. If you’re sleeping in those stacked coffins they call bunks, you sleep with your feet toward me. Something happens and the bus crashes, you get your feet banged up, not your skull. Agreed?”
“Is something going to happen?” The more Ken spoke, the more Nicky shrank.
“I been driving twenty-three years. No big accidents. But that don’t mean it won’t happen. Now, I’m an old man, so I got my stuff in one of them middle bunks back there. You guys can fight over the other five beds, but I can’t climb up and my hip won’t let me duck down, so I’m in the middle.” Archer opened his mouth, and Ken rounded on him. “And no, you can’t put your guitars on the empty bunks. I been driving musicians for eleven years. Seven for Lyre Records. I know what you want to do. There are fasteners on the wall in the back lounge. Lock your instruments up tight when you’re not actually holding them.” He glared at me.
“Got it,” I said obediently.
“Everything else, we work out. Missy, you get Ismael to radio me if you’re taking the first leg on bus two. He’s the driver. Any questions? All right. Go on, little thing. Go see what they want on bus two.”
Nicky regarded him for a beat, darted a last look at Archer, and fled the bus.
“Good I didn’t tell her no shitting, huh?” Ken looked at me. “Son, what the hell happened to your face?”
2
THE BOLD NEW PROJECT
NICKY
Oh.
My.
God.
I made it two buses away (out of sight of any rock god peering through the front windshield) and ducked down the narrow alley between bus six and bus five so I could fumble for my phone.
OH MY GOD
I texted both of my besties, even though I knew Selene wouldn’t have her phone on. Judy, however, didn’t let me down.
Tell! What? Have you seen Sheree yet?
ARCHER ARMSTRONG so gorgeous why didn’t you tell me??
Girl I totally told you! Have you seen him?
I’m on his fucking bus! Like for two whole months!
OMG I’m emailing Selene
I have no time have a meeting in two minutes
You met Archer? He’s so hot I’m way jelly
He got my name wrong twice I almost peed he is SEX WALKING
OMG
OMGGGGG
Selene had joined the conversation. She must have raced to hide in the bathroom of her law offices once she got Judy’s email.
Rock star romance eee! You are so going to fuck him You have to fuck him for all of us who can’t
Take your pills never forget
Like I would. Judy, however, had other plans.
Totally forget the pills
Rock star baby!
I have to go
More later
How is your life so much more exciting than ours?
SEND PICS
BBL
Texts continued to ping in as I speed walked to bus two, passing dancers and hairdressers and musicians, all hanging around their buses to chat casually and be beautiful in the last few minutes before the tour rolled out of this New Jersey parking lot and into the whole wide opportunity of North America. I checked my phone quickly. Selene was sending me links to Aftermath videos on TikTok. She’d told me to watch them before I got here. I should have.
I silenced my phone. That was for later. Now it was time to meet the boss.
Tug skirt flat over hips. Check high pony. Straighten spine, square shoulders. Smile. Project confidence.
I was capable and intelligent. I brought value to Lyre Records.
My internal pep talk was a waste since none of the people on bus two even looked up when I marched up the stairs.
Three men sat in the front kitchen/dining area, all three of them shouting into their phones. Two women were in heated conversation behind them in the hallway that held the bunks, stacked three high on both sides. And a vampire woman in flame orange was pacing in the back lounge area, shouting into her phone.
It was tough to project confidence while standing uncertainly just past the driver’s area, uselessly watching the hub of the Sheree Untethered tour in the moments before its launch. I had no idea what to do.
One of the guys in the swivel chairs crab walked his feet until he was facing me. He was completely focused on his call—something about the gas bill for the tour, which, now that I thought about it, must have been a dangerously large budget item—but he was checking out my legs anyway, like a guy on the street having a conversation with a friend who noticed a sports car driving by. Something he might want to acquire later. Maybe. I shifted uncomfortably.
Yeah, buddy. You’re definitely making an impression on me.
The other swivel chair held an older man in a heated discussion about a photographer. The guy at the kitchen table was getting loud about something called a drop-in that seemed to be very important to him.
Some signal I didn’t catch must have gotten to the two women by the bunks. They turned as one and brushed past me. “Hi!” the first one said.
“Cute shoes!” the other said.
“Thanks.” I turned to watch them go. Don’t leave me! You’re the only ones I think I want to know!
They didn’t go far. Through the windshield, I saw them chatting happily with the two guys standing at the open door to bus one. The star coach. It was like a modern, moving, high-tech fortress.
Sheree’s coach. She was about twenty feet away from me. How about that.
Both women were absorbed into the star coach, and I turned back to the highly charged phone conversations that had nothing to do with me.
The “drop-ins” guy ended his call and gestured to me with his chin. “Are you someone?”
“Um . . . I’m sorry?”
“What are you doing here? Who are you?”
“Oh. I’m Daniel Thorn. I mean, I’m his replacement.” I fished for my resume and my contract with Lyre Records, avoiding Mr. Gas Bill’s legs as I moved into the tour bus. “I’m the intern. Nicky Swanson.”
“You’re my intern?” He scanned my face and body—another one who thought women were meat—and gestured me into the banquette opposite him. “What happened to the guy?”
I held out my hand, hoping he’d introduce himself. “I’m Nicky,” I repeated.
He got the cue and shook. “Mr. Cantrell,” he said, holding my hand too long. “But you can call me Bruce.”
Yep. Now I know all I need to know about you, Bruce. I pulled my hand back.
