by Karina Bliss
RESURRECTION
A Rock Solid Romance
KARINA BLISS
No more rock stars. Ever.
Lily Hagen has done that scene to death. Her new career in early childhood education is way more rewarding and she deals with far fewer tantrums. Then a stolen sex tape is posted online and her future is in jeopardy. She needs to get away from the paparazzi and the only place that offers refuge is the world she swore never to return to: the music world. Fine.
A few months—tops. That’s all she needs to get her life back. And keeping her hands off gorgeous Moss McFadden? Should be easy since they’ve always avoided each other.
Being an outsider suits him just fine…
Moss McFadden may be a rising rock star, but he’s quite happy to keep everyone at arm’s length. Until Lily needs help, that is. They strike a deal that puts them in closer proximity than is good for his equilibrium. Still, he can keep his growing fascination with her in check.
Or can he?
Because when she lends him a hand in a life-changing situation, all his defenses are shot. And as he goes down in a wave of longing, he wonders if she just might be his salvation.
Table of Contents
RESURRECTION
About the Book
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
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Copyright Information
Chapter One
Tonight marks the unofficial debut of T-Minus 6, a new band set up by the three former proteges of controversial rock legend Zander Freedman.
Moss McFadden (guitar), Seth Curran (drums) and Jared Walker (bass) came to fame two years ago when Rage frontman Zander Freedman used a reality-show format to repopulate his megaband.
Rage’s new lineup was wildly successful, with sellout concerts worldwide, but it all fell apart when a lip-syncing scandal and vocal issues ended the flamboyant frontman’s singing career.
The trio is playing a mystery gig somewhere in LA to showcase tracks from their forthcoming debut album. Social media is buzzing as Rage fans try to guess the venue, but will their music be any good?
Bassist and songwriter Jared Walker has proven talent, Grammy-nominated for a song he wrote for his wife. Drummer Seth Curran and axeman Moss McFadden might be respected by their musical peers, but in accepting a lead singer’s role, McFadden is taking a massive gamble. Inevitably comparisons will be made to his mentor, whose voice was truly one in a generation.
Will McFadden, Curran, and Walker be able to write their own story or will their efforts end as a JarJar Binks-style fuckup footnote in Rage’s turbulent history?
—LA Times
Chapter Two
Moss McFadden was resting his forehead against the cold mirror in the tiny backstage washroom when Dimity Graham, the band’s manager, banged on the door. “Ten minutes.”
His stomach spasmed, but the only thing left in it was terror. And that wasn’t going anywhere.
He reminded himself that there were a mere five hundred people to boo him off stage. Rage concerts had pulled sixty thousand. Yeah, and you threw up then, too. Hands shaking, he splashed water on his clammy face, and rinsed his mouth clean. In the mirror above the basin, his normally olive skin was so pale the stubble looked like dots of black ink. When he opened the door into the dressing room, Jared was still sitting on the couch, manically color-coding M&M’s and then chewing them by the handful. His bass guitar was propped beside him, and his palms were streaked red and blue. Not even M&M’s could withstand Jared’s nervous sweat.
Seth was pacing the small room, scowling at the floor. One of his drumsticks fell out of his back pocket, and he picked it up on the next pass without breaking stride. They were all fighting nerves, and without their former lead singer bouncing in, radiating confidence to defuse the tension, they had to find another way to deal with them.
Alone is good. “I need some air.” He headed for the exit.
“Don’t go far,” Dimity cautioned, handing him a bottle of chilled water and two breath mints. “Five minutes until you’re on.”
“What are you, the talking clock?”
Her blue eyes narrowed. Only twenty-seven, she had the strategic vision of a general, and the patience of a drill sergeant, at least where Moss was concerned. “I could try to be understanding, but it won’t end well.” She tossed her blonde ponytail. “Suck it up.”
His stomach rolled and he clutched the water bottle against it protectively. “Watch your word choice.”
“Moss,” she called after him. “You will come back.”
He didn’t answer, shoving aside the bolt on the fire door and stepping into the service alley. One bulb was out, the other flickering. LA’s concrete jungle was releasing its daytime heat, and he pressed his back against the brick wall, seeking warmth as he gulped the chilled water and popped the breath mints. Breathed in the mimosa of trash, gasoline and mortar and felt his stomach settle.
Darkness always soothed him.
When he’d been a sixteen-year-old on the run from Child Protective Services it had been his only friend. Earnest citizens and officialdom were at their busiest in daylight hours. Night offered cover and opened up escape routes—
Light flooded the alley as Dimity opened the fire door. Clearly, she didn’t trust him not to run either.
“The Times article triggered this, didn’t it? I thought it would fire you up.” That was the difference between them. Dimity loved adversity; Moss had been its bitch too many times.
“What’s the worst that can happen?” she persisted when he didn’t answer.
Seriously? He turned his head to look at her, all blonde ambition and Ivy League education. “I kill my music career, the one damn thing saving me from working a dead-end job. When I’m pumping gas or tending bar in a year, people will say, “Hey, didn’t you used to be…?”
“Moss.” Tentatively, she touched his shoulder. Dimity was as guarded as he was, openly showing affection solely to Seth and her dog. “You have us now.”
He shrugged free. “I’ll be sure to note that on my job application.” He was being an ass but he couldn’t help himself. Every fear he normally suppressed was riding him hard. “Talking me into lead vocals. What were you all thinking?” He pushed away from the wall. “What was I thinking?” As a lead guitarist he was used to attention, but not as the band’s anchor. He’d never been an anchor in his life.
The alley’s shadows called to him, tempting him to disappear. If darkness was his friend, hope was his bitterest foe. He fucking hated hope. And yet he was relying on that tiny wiggling squirming thing that wouldn’t die to explode into a performance that would kick-start not just his career, but the careers of his friends. “I don’t know if I can want something this badly again,” he admitted hoarsely.
“It’s been hard for all of us.”
“I’m not disputing that.” She couldn’t understand what it had cost him, as a self-protective loner, to give Rage everything and still not have it work out. It was a lot safer to revert to fac
tory settings. Convince yourself that you never really wanted ‘it’ anyway—a home, a band, a dream.
“Hang in there.” The savagery in Seth’s voice made them both jump. He appeared in the doorway, auburn hair ablaze with the light behind him, his expression hard. “Just fucking hold on for the next hour, if not for me and Dimity and Jared, then for Jared and Kayla’s kids.”
When did I start collecting people I can’t let down? “If you want me inside,” Moss’s tone was equally savage as he accepted the inevitable, “then quit blocking my way.”
Unsmiling, Seth stepped aside. “We’ll kiss and make up later.”
“There’d better be tongue.” Shoving past him, Moss returned to the backstage dressing room, ducking as Jared fired something at him. A balled-up candy packet.
“I just ate my fucking body weight in M&M’s, thanks to you.” Disgusted, he wiped his palms on his jeans, leaving rainbow streaks on the faded denim. A blue smear marred his glossy black hair.
Moss’s despair grew. Dimity attempting empathy, Seth snarling, and Mr. Soulful covered in food coloring? Don’t tell me the end of the world isn’t nigh.
A tap on the door confirmed it. “You’re up,” a voice called.
Feeling as if he was about to face a firing squad, Moss stumbled to the middle of the room to bump fists with Seth and Jared.
“Let’s be gods, gentlemen.” Jared’s voice cracked as he voiced their former mantra for Rage.
“Right now I’ll settle for being a man,” Seth replied.
Moss glared at him. “Now your sense of humor returns?” He snapped his fingers. “Someone come up with a new mantra.”
Jared managed a weak grin. “Let’s not piss our pants?”
Seth laughed; Moss couldn’t. There was no reprieve for him this side of performance. His throat closed up. Assuming he could do more than squeak.
“Oh, for God’s sake.” Dimity yanked the door open. “Get out there and kick ass.”
* * *
“We have a surprise act for you tonight…”
The rest of the MC’s words were drowned out by a swell of applause and cheers.
The band had chosen The Comfort Zone for their first guerrilla gig because it had a reputation for showcasing future stars and they had history here, playing for other bands a few times when Rage was in hiatus. It was also Moss’s home from home. Gloomy and raggedy-edged, with an undercurrent of suppressed violence, the bar attracted outsiders who liked to push boundaries.
Tonight the crowd included music critics, vloggers, bloggers, a couple of producers, all hand-picked by Dimity. Knowing their manager, she was playing them off against each other. The band’s job was to wow these influencers. Hook, cause a stir, and start a revolution. For now, it was enough that Moss’s shaking legs carried him to the microphone, while he held his guitar across his body for protection.
The MC was still selling it.
“T-Minus 6 are giving us a taster of some of the new tracks on the album they’re releasing next month, and you’re the first in the fucking world to hear them…” More cheers. At least the crowd was primed. “…in advance of a concert tour early next year.”
Over four weeks the band would hit other small-but-hip clubs. Every one of the performances would be filmed to form the basis of a video for this song. With an effort, Moss avoided looking at the several cameras trained on him. Shit. In his nervousness he’d headed to his usual lead guitarist’s position instead of center stage.
“You might want to nudge to the right a little, mate,” Seth suggested behind him. Seated at his drum kit, wearing his usual shit-eating grin, the son of a bitch even played a drum roll as Moss strode across the stage, inciting laughter from the crowd.
He tried to match his bandmate’s ease, but his grin was a death mask. He cleared his throat. “It’s really great to be back in The Comfort Zone, in front of a discern—” His mic cut out.
He switched it off, then on, hating his trembling hands, then adjusted his earpiece. The venue’s techs started working frantically on the sidelines, tracking the problem to its source. Had the camera crew unplugged something?
Oh, fuck.
“Looks like our singer has a sound issue,” Jared said easily from his right. “Feel free to talk among yourselves until we sort it.”
If anything, the silence deepened as the crowd stared at Moss with a voyeuristic enjoyment. His legs wouldn’t stop shaking, he had to keep shuffling to hide it, and sweat beaded his forehead under the heat of the spotlight.
Fuck this. He started strumming, just to have something to do with his hands, not a song but an improvised riff that didn’t know where it was going. Seth picked up the beat, Jared added bass notes, and suddenly they had a melody, subversive and sly.
You have to make this work, there isn’t a life for you to go back to. Not one worth having.
On the sidelines the techs were still busy. Ignoring Dimity’s anxious face, Moss raised his voice over the meandering tune.
“So while we’re waiting, let me tell you about the name of the band…T-Minus 6. What the fuck is that about? When NASA is launching a rocket, takeoff minus six minutes is when they ignite the main engines.”
“You need a rocket under your microphone first,” yelled a heckler, and Moss forced himself to laugh with everyone else.
“T-Minus 6…” The mic buzzed on. Glancing sideways, he got a tech’s thumbs up. “…is the moment of truth when all the work pays off or the whole damn thing explodes.” He lifted a hand as a signal to Jared and Seth, and smoothly they all stopped playing. Hand raised, he waited. “Either way,” he said into the expectant silence. “We’ll be making a lot of noise.”
He howled the opening line of the song into the void, unaccompanied. Then he dropped his hand and the three of them unleashed a sonic boom of sound. Their first number was a statement of intent. We’re not going smaller than Rage. We’re going bigger. He couldn’t hear how people responded, but he could see it. Open mouths, wide eyes. He held his nerve. This was where he trusted his bandmates completely. When they were making music together.
They’d chosen songs that would showcase their unique perspectives. Jared’s tenderness as a husband and father, Seth’s fearless zest for life, and Moss’s dark cynicism.
Seth had written the lyrics to this one. It was his love song to a powerful woman and Moss sang it as the war anthem it was. Loud and passionate, defiant and sexy, with a dark seam of tenderness.
Meet me on the battlefield, baby, let’s bloody ourselves on love.
The music pulsed through the crowd, heads began to nod, limbs twitched.
If Zander’s voice had been a cathedral, Moss’s was an industrial warehouse—strong, with the beams exposed, the dirty end of baritone with tangled emotions and bare wiring. Raw. Jared and Seth added layers of tenor brightness in the chorus. By the second verse he’d forgotten his nerves in performance, had shoved his guitar around to his back, and was lost in the music.
The plan was to perform two high-energy numbers, then ease the crowd to earth with Kayla’s Song, Jared’s Grammy-nominated ballad for his wife, before ending the set with Moss’s subversive take on a love song.
But this one had to blow the minds of crowd and critics alike. First impressions mattered. He hit the last note and it fell into a silence that stretched as endlessly as his father’s last breath. Moss’s heartbeat sped up—as it had then, working twice as hard for both of them. And as he waited with bowed head he had the same thought.
Don’t abandon me. Please. This is the only home I know.
Chapter Three
The Comfort Zone was just as Lily Stuart remembered it.
Estrogen and testosterone mingling with intent. The beautiful crazies looking to score—sex, excitement, drugs, a celebrity. The band was already playing in the adjacent main bar and loud ricocheted off the walls as their song reached its crescendo, the singer’s howl sending a prickle down her spine—apprehension, intensity, excitement, an odd kind of ene
rgy. Whatever it was she didn’t like it.
For a moment, she nearly turned around.
Last time she’d visited as Stormy Hagen, she’d been waved through a VIP entrance on Zander Freedman’s arm—platinum blonde, big-breasted and brandishing her sexuality like a golden ticket.
That was how the women in her family defined success—finding a guy with money to take care of them. “We might not be blessed with brains,” her mother said, “but we are lookers.” Leaving out the part where keeping the guy seemed beyond them. Lily was investing in a different currency now, and this wasn’t her stage anymore.
But Dimity expected her support and this was their only chance for a best friends catch-up. She’d flown in from England this morning with the family she nannied for. Tomorrow they’d fly to Martha’s Vineyard for two weeks, with only a two-night stopover at Disneyland on the return journey. Shaking off her jetlag, she adjusted her tortoiseshell glasses and headed toward the music.
From the dismissive way his gaze flicked over her, the bouncer guarding the entrance to the VIP bar didn’t think she belonged either.
“Hi Warren, good to see you again.”
He returned a weary look that suggested a dozen people had already tried the “We’re friends!” gambit and failed to get entry. “No one gets in once the gig starts.”
“Dimity said she’d left a pass for me.” She showed him the text on her cell.
