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Encore: A Reverse Harem Romance

Encore: A Reverse Harem Romance

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What happens when you’re responsible for someone else’s future? Or when you end up falling for them?

Tessa Graham has loved Malus for years. They were once a wildly popular band, topping the charts and leaving broken hearts in their wake. But for the past five years, they’ve been playing the same old hits, incapable of creating anything new.

As an assistant working for the band’s record label, Tessa is given the opportunity of a lifetime. Her boss informs her that she must help the band write and record a new album—and she only has seven months to do it. If she succeeds, she’s in line for a huge promotion. If she fails, she’s fired. And so is the band.

What starts out as a desire to keep her job, and perhaps learn a little about the four mysterious musicians she’s always admired, quickly turns into more than anyone could have ever expected. As Tessa spends time with each man, she quickly learns that outward appearances aren’t always what they seem.

Tessa may hold the band’s future in her hands…but there might be more at risk than her job. If she isn’t careful, she could also lose her heart.

Main Tropes

  • MFM Romance
  • Rock Stars
  • Found Family



As soon as the guys come off the stage, I follow them, ready to see what the problem is for each member and fix it. Not just for them, but because I love my job and I want to keep it. Seeing how my dad suffered trying to make it big makes me want to give those opportunities to deserving musicians everyone else has overlooked.

When I spot one of the young roadies dressed in all black carrying Davis’s white Fender guitar, I show him my backstage pass on my lanyard. “Excuse me, sir. Do you know where I can find the members of Malus?”

His eyes look at my pass for only a second. “They’re back in the dressing room. Not exactly a place for a nice girl like you.”


“Too bad, because I don’t have a choice,” I reply. “Can you show me which room?”

“Sure,” he agrees before he turns around and starts back down the way he just came from. “Down here, and the first room on the left.”

“Got it, thanks,” I tell him.

“Good luck,” he replies with a chuckle before he walks away.
I park my luggage at the door and then raise my knuckles to knock rapidly, while taking a deep breath to calm my nerves.

A bearded man with tattoos opens the door and looks me up and down salaciously. I know he’s Davis Hunt, the guitarist, before he opens his mouth to ask over his shoulder, “Who ordered the little blonde secretary with a stick up her ass?”

Holding up the pass that’s around my neck, I tell him, “I’m Tessa Graham, from Black Hawk Records.”

“Whatever,” Davis mutters when he braces his hand on the door frame, blocking me from entry.

From inside the room, I hear, “Oh, fucking great!”

When I look under the raised arm of the big man who is as wide as a redwood tree, and at least as tall, I see the cursing is coming from the clean-cut band member I recognize as Clarke Nash, the drummer.

“Let her in, for chrissakes, and could you try to be a little nicer!” he tells Davis.

The giant opens the door a little wider for me to squeeze by him with my rolling luggage, barely.

Inside the room, my eyes sweep around the tables of food and alcohol and several leather sofas, taking it all in. Someone with messy brown hair is face down on the sofa, either asleep or dead. I hope it’s the former. And awesome, the dark-haired guy I recognize as Ford, the lead singer, currently has a brunette kneeling between his legs either worshipping him for the rock god he is or sucking his dick. Probably both.

My cheeks redden in embarrassment at walking in on such an intimate act, but none of the guys, especially Ford, seem concerned. And the girl’s so unfazed, her head doesn’t even pause once in her bobbing.

“We need to talk. Could you please get rid of…” I wave a hand toward the woman on her knees.
Like the famous arrogant ass he is, Ford smirks at me and holds up one finger, indicating I should wait before he grabs the back of the girl’s dark hair to hold it in place. Then he throws his head back on a deep groan that I translate to mean he’s unloading down her throat with all of us watching. It’s not that I wanted to watch, but it’s hard to look away from a man you’ve idolized on stage, making sex sounds while being pleasured.

“Jesus, Ford!” Clarke grumbles as he continues to pace around the room.
Davis chuckles in amusement before he says, “They always want to suck the lead singer’s dick, even though mine is twice as big.”

Opening his eyes, Ford flips the guitarist off with his free hand but keeps his intense blue gaze on me as his lips part, and the sounds of wet suction fill the room as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking.

And yes, deep down in my gut there may even be just a hint of jealousy for the woman who gets to touch Ford Donohue in such a way that most women, and even I, have only dreamed of. Even though it’s only one-sided, I bet the brunette leaves the room with her head held high, proud of her accomplishment – getting to put her mouth on a rock star.

Rather than give him the satisfaction of showing my physical interest in him, I cross my arms over my chest indignantly, barely refraining from tapping my foot while I convey my annoyance at Ford’s rude behavior.

“Thanks, babe,” Ford tells the woman in his deep, smooth, sexy voice that could melt butter while he pats the top of her head like she’s a good dog. I’m thankful to finally hear the sound of his zipper going up.

“Give us a minute, love?” he asks.
The woman gets to her feet while wiping her mouth with her hand and then trots over toward me with a grin on her face, not a trace of discomfort from having an audience for her performance before she walks out the door.

Wow. I’m getting one hell of an introduction to the band tonight. It’s not the one I imagined, where all the guys were perfect gentlemen who understood the record label’s issues and wanted to correct them and produce a new album as soon as possible.

Wishful thinking.

“I take it that’s Bennett Hale?” I ask, pointing to the sleeping man.

“Yep.” Clarke walks over and gives the guy’s shoulder a shake that does absolutely nothing. “Sorry,” Clarke says with a cringe. “He just had a little to drink after we got backstage.”

“It sounded like he was drunk on stage. It sounded like you all were two sheets to the wind up there, except for Davis. What’s going on, guys?” I ask them.

They all remain silent, so I gather my courage and continue on my rant, hoping I look more confident than I feel in this new role. “The record label is losing its patience. You’ve got seven months to come up with some new songs and record them for the second album, or they’re cutting you loose.”

“Good,” grumbles Davis before he meanders over and flops down on an empty leather sofa, taking up the majority of it.

“No, no, no. This is not good!” Clarke mutters as he reaches up with both hands and starts tugging on his short blond hair. “Ugh. Now I can’t breathe.” Reaching into his jeans pocket with a shaking hand, he pulls out an albuterol inhaler and puts it between his lips to take a few puffs.
Well, at least someone is taking this seriously. Maybe too seriously.

“Calm down. You guys still have plenty of time to buckle down and do this,” I assure him before he passes out.

Ford gets to his feet and strolls over to me, all sexy male confidence and attitude. “Sorry to tell you this, babe, but I haven’t been able to write shit in years. It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s that I can’t. So why don’t you go back to your high-rise and tell those fuckers that unless they have a magic wand that they can wave, a new album ain’t gonna happen within a few months.”

With that proclamation, Ford goes over to the door, jerks it open, and leaves, slamming it shut behind him.

“What he said,” Davis grumbles before he gets up and is out the door too.

“Clarke, I know you’re the most reasonable one,” I say, since he’s the only one who hasn’t been an asshole, an arrogant prick, or unconscious during my pep talk. “We have to figure out how to make that magic Ford was talking about, or you’re all going to have to get normal people jobs, myself included. I can’t imagine the four of you have much money left from the first album, right?”

“No, we don’t,” he says when he sits down on the sofa and bends over, placing his head between his legs. His words are muted as he continues, “Ben’s been borrowing from me for weeks now. Davis probably isn’t far behind. Ford will be okay for a while because he’s the front man and has some other promotional shit going on.”

“So tell me, what do you think you guys need to start writing? How can we make the four of you productive and successful again?” I ask.

“I dunno,” he answers from between his legs.

“Anything, Clarke. Just name it, and I have the power to make it happen.”

Lifting his head to look at me with worried but beautiful deep green eyes, he asks, “Anything? Really?”

“Yes. Ask away,” I say, taking a seat beside him. “That’s what I’m here for. Think of me as your very own personal genie. Instead of three wishes, though, you get as many as it takes to get this group back on the path of success.” I rest my palm on his thigh in a show of comfort to calm him down, not just because I wanted to touch him to make sure I’m really sitting here, talking to one of the members of my favorite band.

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