Copyright © 2021
RISE by Cassandra Robbins
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or scanned in any manner without written permission of the author, except in the need of quotes for reviews only.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and establishments are the product of the author’s imagination or are used to provide authenticity and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Edited: Nikki Busch Editing
Cover Design: Lori Jackson Design
Formatting and proofing: Elaine York, Allusion Publishing
Cover Photo: Michelle Lancaster
Cover Model: Mitchell Wick
Tattoo Artist: Mathew Franklin
Playlist
Prologue
Chapter One
Part One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Part Two
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Epilogue
Also by Cassandra Robbins
Connect
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Your Guardian Angel – The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus
Silver and Cold – AFI
Mountain Man – Crash Kings
Champagne – Cavo
Cocaine – Eric Clapton
The Night We Met – Lord Huron
I Found – Amber Run
Forever – Labrinth
Love is a Bitch – Two Feet
Do It for Me – Rosenfeld
Snow White – Dennis Lloyd
You Really Got Me – The Kinks
A Little Wicked – Valerie Broussard
Voodoo – Bryce Fox
Devil Inside – London Grammar
Don’t Let Me Down – Stereophonics
She Talks to Angels – The Black Crowes
Glycerine – Bush
House of Pain – The White Buffalo
Where Did You Sleep Last Night – Sleigh Bells
November Rain – Guns N’ Roses
Within Your Reach – The Replacements
In Your Eyes – Peter Gabriel
For my loves,
Mark, Jack, and Sophia
She stands in the rain, droplets of water running down her face to her feet. The moonlight makes it seem even more ominous than anything the daylight could spread.
Her pain seeps out of her, almost as if her tears are the reason she’s wet, rather than the rain that has soaked the parking lot.
The pulse of rage pounds my temples along with my adoring crowd behind me. The stadium energy is alive. It vibrates through me as I watch her.
“Why?” she yells at me. Her long, wet hair sticks to her face.
The guitar solo behind me wails as they chant my name. I wonder if they know how much I need to hear them?
This is the moment I die and become reborn.
Her grief will heal; mine will fester and ooze. It’s poison, growing stronger daily until my heart will not beat for her anymore.
She is, was, my anchor. My fucking lifeline to the real me.
I watch her beautiful face in the moonlight, her pale skin never looking more striking at this moment, until she backs away from me, taking my soul with her.
Agonizing pain seizes my chest as I let her go.
I don’t reach for her.
I don’t stop her, though the pain’s so excruciating it’s as though I’ve swallowed a knife. The slow descent slices my insides.
The bike waits for her like a living creature. An angry, living beast, its exhaust fills the area. It rumbles and vibrates on the pavement, reminding me that no matter how high I rise, I’ll always be the man who hemorrhages grief.
She hesitates, her hand on his shoulder.
Time stops.
One. Two. Three.
I hear my heart pound and know it’s hers calling to me.
“I hate you, Rhys Granger,” she screams. Her thin body trembles as she swings one long leg over the seat and climbs on, clinging to the biker in front of her.
I can’t see him. Don’t need to. I know his rage, and I’d feel the same if the roles were reversed.
His dark bike shines, almost glows in the moonlight. The sky blasts an eerie white zigzag across the black night. The pelting, almost stinging rain burns my sensitized skin. I open my mouth to try to take back all that has happened, to make her stay.
But I stop myself.
I owe her more than that.
The guitar solo is almost over and the lights from the stadium lasers fill the wet night with color.
My followers never leave. They’re what I need to focus on. Even with Mother Nature sharing her grief for me, my people love me. They know I bleed for them, and in return they give me their undying devotion.
The bike, like a dark demon, speeds away, the red taillight illuminating the two figures who seem to evaporate into the wet night.
For a second, I move as if I can actually catch up with the lead horse. I rip off my soaked shirt as if to shed my skin, or at least her scent, but stop as I acknowledge the truth: this is it.
She’s mine and she’s gone.
I’m not good.
All the people I love end up getting hurt.
The rumble of the crowd stops me, calls to me. Like a junkie with his addiction, I slow. We never had a chance.
Timing. The one thing you never escape. Our past formed our future.
Tossing the wet shirt to the ground, I reach for my heart, then look up into the rain-filled night and let it wash away my guilt.
Betrayal stings like a bitch, and no amount of Mother Nature’s cleansing tears can rid me of who and what I’ve become.
I’ve lost my muse, the one love of my life.
The crowd chants my name. I embrace it, let it fill me, build me up, the adrenaline of their screaming love allowing me to accept who I am.
Rock God.
As if the universe agrees, it lets out a loud, explosive crash of thunder.
She’s gone and taken my heart with her but this… I still have this.
I start to walk, but the water weighs me down. Hands touch me, and someone passes me a bottle as I make my way up the stairs.
It’s chaos.
Mayhem.
The crowd roars as if my very presence has brought them to life.
I lift my fist to the sky and close my eyes.
&nbs
p; I am home.
I am the Rock God.
GIA
Present – Twenty-five years old
Paris, France
“Are you going to fall asleep at the table, or can I order us something to eat?” Sebastian kicks my crossed leg, causing my eyes to snap open and my leg to drop with a thud.
“Stop it,” I hiss, straightening up. “I’m jet-lagged already.” I breathe in and look around, mostly for a waitress. I need coffee. Wealth and entitlement bounce from one table to the next as I roll my neck and try to focus.
“Get your shit together. The day just started.” He smirks and leans back in the comfortable chair as his eyes scan my face.
I cock my head and stare right back, but let’s be honest—he has an unfair advantage. The jerk slept the entire plane ride from Los Angeles to Paris. I think he woke up once for some water and a warm cloth for his eyes, then went back to sleep. While I stayed awake, torturing myself for eleven hours, worrying that at any second this might be my last. I have a flying phobia. It started years ago. Maybe I’ve always had it. I can’t pinpoint when it started to be out of control. I guess it kind of crept up on me slowly, one flight after another until Bam.
I’ve tried everything: yoga, counseling, hypnotherapy. You name it; I’ve tried it. But no matter how Zen I am, as soon as I board the plane and smell that recycled air, all meditation is gone.
It’s irrational, but the plane could go down. The thought of having to go through those last seconds…
Sebastian, on the other hand, orders a screwdriver, pops some Valium, and is out in minutes. Meanwhile, I sit in silence, fighting myself not to jump up and scream for the pilot to make an emergency landing.
Which is why I’m exhausted. I need coffee, or a ten-minute nap, not Sebastian’s stare.
“Damn it.” I don’t look away but grab my purse from the floor. Obviously, my appearance is lacking.
“I don’t know why you never listen to me. I begged you to take a Valium or Ativan.” His voice keeps bugging me.
“Because I hate relying on them. I’m stronger than that,” I snip right back at him. He continues giving me the stare. I take a deep breath because I want so badly for it to be true. Unfortunately, this time he might be right. I’m exhausted, physically and mentally, and we do have a full day ahead. I give him a giant eye roll as I pull out my makeup bag.
“And I hate that stare,” I say dramatically, opening my compact to assess myself. He throws back his head and laughs as I blink at my reflection in the small mirror.
I’ve got the smoky-eye thing going on, but I’m rolling with it. It’s fashion week, after all, and with the eleven hours of panic I’ve been through, I’m shocked I look this good. My lips are still stained red from the matte lipstick, and my hair has held up well.
I bring the mirror away from me so I can see more of myself. What the heck? I look pretty damn good. Sebastian has no reason to give me his infamous stare.
“You’re strong, Gia. But even Wonder Woman needs a little help sometimes.” His beautiful brown eyes are serious.
I run my hand through my hair. “Fine. You’ve made your point.” I glance over at the cute, dark-haired waitress who’s approaching and mumble, “I’ll take ten Valium on the way home and swallow them down with a bottle of vodka. Happy?”
“I’m dead serious, Gia. This is getting absur—”
“Bonjour, est-ce que tu veux que bois quelque chose?” The French waitress thankfully saves me from the lecture my best friend is about to give. I hate when Sebastian gets on his soapbox or worse, displays his “brotherly” concern.
I have a brother and trust me, he’s enough.
“Bonjour, beaute.” He instantly shifts so that he can give her his full attention, flashing her his beautiful smile and causing the poor girl to blush.
Perfect. I’m never going to get coffee now. Women go crazy for Sebastian when he decides to show interest. The man oozes self-confidence. That, and he’s fucking hot.
“You want your usual?” He speaks without breaking his stare with the waitress.
“Yes, please.” I feel like kicking him with my new heels. He’s being ridiculous.
Sebastian orders in flawless French. He’s from Montreal, so he speaks the language.
I snap my compact shut, tossing it back into my bag and forcing them both to look at me.
“Coffee, s’il-vous-plait.” My accent is horrendous, which is why I always let Sebastian order, but I have zero patience this morning. If he wants to flirt, he can do it after I get a cup of coffee. I recross my legs and sit up straighter.
“We just got off a plane and I’m in desperate need…” I trail off as Sebastian leans forward and takes my hand, smiling at me as if I’m not quite right.
The waitress looks at me blankly as if she doesn’t speak a word of English, which is a lie. Everyone speaks enough to understand coffee. I’m sure she’s wondering what’s the deal between Sebastian and me.
If I wasn’t so tired, I’d try to smile at her so she could be reassured that I have no interest in Sebastian sexually. We’re strictly friends.
Best friends.
Well, best friends who used to have sex. I met him my freshman year at UC Berkeley. I was nursing a broken heart, and he was drop-dead gorgeous and willing to fuck without asking questions. Thankfully we’re two peas in a pod. Within months, we both knew that we’re definitely better as friends than lovers.
I’m not the type of girl who’s ever going to be in a serious relationship, and Sebastian is a playboy. He’s also my partner, my rock, my voice of reason. I’d do anything for him, which is why I’m in Paris. He’s broke again.
Sebastian likes to live way above his means. His theory is that if you live like you’re the best, you will, in fact, become the best.
As absurd as that thinking is, it works for him most of the time. I’m the opposite. It makes me nervous if I have to dip into my savings account. Sebastian doesn’t even have a savings account, another reason why we’re better as friends.
Crossing my legs, I glance down at my new heels. They’re soft black Italian leather and crisscross up my ankles. I admit it—I have a weakness for shoes, and even though I pride myself on not being impressed by wealth, I was excited to see the shiny black box waiting for me on my bed when I checked in. The shoes were a welcome gift from Alberto, the designer we’re shooting. Timing is everything.
Alberto exploded this year in the fashion world. I met him backstage at the Emmys. Some of the actresses were wearing his dresses and I was there to shoot the cast of Schitt’s Creek.
We hit it off, drank way too much champagne, and ended up at the Abbey doing shots. He passed out that night at my cute Venice bungalow and we’ve stayed close. He’s young, talented, and has a fresh take—not the same crap we’ve seen over and over.
When he called me two weeks ago and begged me to come to Paris to shoot his upcoming collection, I turned him down.
Fashion Week is a lot: the crowds, parties, celebrities, egos. I’ve done it twice and vowed never to do it again.
Unfortunately, he had already gotten ahold of Sebastian who was over the moon about being able to make rent and spend a week in Paris first class.
So… here I sit, dead tired, no coffee, and all-around feeling off. I keep thinking it’s exhaustion, but it’s more like an anxiety or nagging feeling. As if I forgot to lock my door or left my flat iron on.
Yawning, I try to ignore the laughter from my best friend and the waitress. Coffee and breakfast seem forgotten. Might as well check my phone for messages.
Quickly I scan all the missed calls to make sure none are from my mom or brother. Zero from them. Unfortunately, I have ten, no, twelve from my ex and soon-to-be-former agent.
Perfect. I glance up at the gorgeous hotel. Its stunning, giant floral displays are tastefully arranged all over the hotel filling the space with a soft but fresh smell. Whites, creams, and golds grace the lobby and restaurant we’re sitting in. I lean my
head back to admire the ornate turquoise beams that house the glass ceilings.
My phone vibrates again. I don’t need to look down to know it’s my ex. I can sense his craziness across the ocean.
I try hard not to regret things, but Jeff is one big fat mistake. This is absolutely the last time I get into a relationship with my agent.
Why? Why do I do these things?
Maybe I was feeling pressured to find someone or I was sick of sex without some sort of connection. Whatever it was, in a moment of weakness I said yes to Jeff. He’s older, powerful, and rich, not to mention one of the best agents on both coasts. All signs pointed to him being stable and secure.
God, was I wrong. I’ve never been with a more paranoid, borderline narcissistic man. Not to mention the sex was beyond bad. Cringeworthy, really.
I close my eyes and try not to let my mind remember his body. Great, now I see him naked.
Jesus.
Clearly I have shit judgment when it comes to men. It has to be hereditary, maybe even a Fontaine curse. After all, I do come from a long line of bad decision-makers.
My mom. Worst taste in men.
My Grandmother Fontaine. Miserable for thirty years, and now that my grandfather is dead, she’s speeding around Pasadena in a red Corvette. And don’t get me started on my dad and his numerous failed marriages.
I reach for my glass of ice water and almost laugh. There’s only one Fontaine who is happy and in love.
My brother.
It’s unfathomable.
Axel never even wanted to fall in love. He hated it. Made fun of it, yet somehow he’s happy.
With kids. I’m an aunt to twin girls. Surreal if I take the time to think about it. Axel is actually living my childhood fantasy. The house, kids, maybe throw in a dog. He even has a white picket fence around his yard.
It’s kind of a drag. He doesn’t even care when I tease him, just laughs and agrees, then grabs Antoinette and kisses her as if there is no one else in the world. Which makes me feel like shit. I’ll never have what they have. Then that causes me guilt because I do love my brother and I’m happy for him.
Back and forth I ping-pong. It’s why I’ve kept myself busy working and avoiding Antoinette’s calls. She’s knee-deep in planning their wedding, and she wants me around for it. But she has a whole crowd of women who love her, most in happy relationships. I’m like the third wheel.
Rise: A Second Chance Rockstar Romance (Rock God Book 1) Page 1
