River

by Shayne Ford

  River

  A Rock Star Romance

  Shayne Ford

  Copyright © 2016 by Shayne Ford

  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. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, organizations and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features mentioned in this book are the property of their respective owners and have been used without permission and in an editorial fashion only, with no implied endorsement.

  The publication/use of these trademarks is not associated with, approved of or sponsored by the trademarks owners.

  This book is for entertainment purposes only. The author and publisher disclaim any and all responsibility for any liability, loss, or risk, personal or otherwise, incurred as a consequence, directly or indirectly in relation to this book.

  This book is intended for mature audiences only.

  Written by Shayne Ford

  www.shayneford.com

  Twitter:@ShayneFordBooks

  Cover design by Shayne Ford

  The image on the cover is a licensed stock photo, and it is used for illustrative purposes, any person who may be depicted on, is a model.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Introduction

  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

  River’s Heart Excerpt

  Also by Shayne Ford

  About the Author

  Introduction

  River and River’s Heart are the companion books to River Steel and Loving River (Layla’s Books).

  Although each set can be read as a standalone, all books are instrumental in understanding the broader picture.

  Please keep in mind that each set of books includes parts specific to that character’s journey.

  1

  Any wise man can tell you that after a while women come in a few flavors: the clueless, the wildcat, the pleaser, and the soul woman.

  All women can break you if you don’t know what you’re doing, and even if you learn to steer away from trouble, there’s one kind that can be fatal. That’s the kind I crave the most. The kind that comes once in a lifetime, maybe never for most men. The kind that shows you heaven is a place on earth as long as you hold her in your arms.

  I’ve been scarred by all types, and I learned fast.

  In the beginning, there were a lot of clueless women, the ones who think love is a box of chocolate, a ring without a heart or a life of drudgery.

  They don’t know what they want, if they want it or when they want it, and they can’t tell a man’s love from a pair of shoes, or maybe they just don’t care.

  We bounced mindlessly against each other, wasting time and heart. After a while, they no longer made the cut for me. Once I learned to read the signs, I steered away from them. I didn’t want to waste anyone’s time.

  Then, I came across a couple of wildcats. They’re rare and look like any other kind. You have to figure them out fast before they burn you to the ground and leave you for the dead.

  Unpredictable like rain, they shape-shift like hell. They can purr like a domesticated kitten, lure you like a soul woman, fuck you like a pleaser, and still drop you if something else catches their eye.

  You never know if you’re dancing with them or alone while they’re long gone.They’re hot and have hearts, but their hearts belong to no one but themselves. With them, it’s like fucking the wind. If you can taste one and still come out alive, that’s a wild ride to take.

  The pleasers give you everything you want, but never give you their heart. They don’t have one, I suspect. Everything they offer comes with a price. That’s the whole gimmick. You pay, they give you more. You stop paying, they’re gone.

  The higher you climb on the food chain, the more sophisticated and enthralling they become, like the nymph who moans, mouth full, against my lap, her blonde hair draped over my hips, her breasts crushed against my bed, her lips molded, soft and wet, around my girth.

  She does her best as my eyes roam over her body, taking inventory. Lean legs, narrow waist, pert breasts, small tight ass. Lana Fox is a lingerie model for a reason, and that’s not because she’s good with numbers, although she does excel at some.

  She does everything perfectly, and that’s the telltale. She knows men like the back of her hand. What she doesn’t know is that I’m not her typical customer.

  I’m a free rider, not that I hold it back from her. I’m a full disclosure policy guy, but women can’t always accept the truth, especially when it doesn’t sit well with them.

  The thing is, no matter how clear I made it to her, she doesn’t accept the idea. She’s too confident she can wrap any hot blooded man around her finger, and in her defense, she has the track record to prove it.

  Her lips could easily revive a dying man, and I’m not in the contest for the longest to last, so I press my hand on the back of her head, and she gets the cue. Her mouth blows hot on me, and I’m ready to come.

  I pull her off me, roll down a condom, and swiftly bury myself in her. Moaning and groaning, she’s shaking with pleasure, squirming against my thrusts, climaxing before I come. A fair exchange, I’d say, since I don’t like to hold debts, and I want to make her effort and time worthwhile.

  We catch our breaths, and for a fleeting second, I see the woman in her, but it’s too little, too late, and it doesn’t last long. She rolls off the bed, and scurries away, vanishing into the bathroom.

  Minutes tick by before she emerges out of the shower, all prepped up. Clad in red satin underwear, her hair freshly brushed, her makeup expertly touched up, she grins and sways her hips, precious like a Goddess.

  Winding a towel around my hips, I cast her a hollow glance, and amble to the bathroom. The pretending is over. At least for me, it is.

  “You let yourself out,” I say, flat, swaggering past her.

  “River?”

  “Yes?”

  I brace the doorframe and wait, my back turned to her.

  “We need to talk,” she says.

  “We don’t need to do anything, honey.”

  I’m not in the mood for her shit, and it’s not like I’ve never been through this before, with her or other women. They all agree to casual fucking until they don’t. And then they want to talk, coax, plead and break the deal.

  A classic bait and switch.

  That’s how they talk themselves into a corner, leaving me no other choice but to let them go, and whether she knows it or not, I’m right at that point with her.

  “After the concert?” she asks.

  I glance over my shoulder. She’s sticking her bottom lip out, giving me the princess routine, a favorite, I suspect, amongst her admirers.

  Too bad it doesn’t fly with me.

  “Not tonight. Tomorrow, maybe,” I say.

  Her eyes light up, and I wish I knew why. It’s not like she’s making any progress, yet she’s stuck too high up her ass to notice.

  “Before the concert?”

  “There’s an after-party. I’ll meet you ther
e,” I say dryly.

  She should know by now, I’m the one who chooses the place and the time. To be honest, I’m not even sure I want to hook up with her two days in a row, let alone have a talk, so I pick a public place and a neutral location.

  Well, sort of.

  This is probably not what she has hoped for. For one, there’s going to be a lot of competition, and that’s hardly what she wants.

  And then, a public place is the worst spot to approach me and pull me into a bed related conversation. I’m notorious for not advertising my private life for public consumption, no matter who I fuck and how often, not that I expect her to understand.

  It’s a different game for her, I know.

  That’s exactly how she’s become relevant. Smoking body, juicy headlines, heartbroken men scattered everywhere she goes.

  That’s her recipe for success.

  I know she’d like nothing better than have our pictures spread all over the Internet, and me, just another sucker in the long line of male trophies.

  Ron, my business partner, would like that too. It’s good for the bottom line, he’d say. The pictures, I mean.That’s why it’s called entertainment business, after all.

  Fuck that.

  It’s not his ass on the Internet. It’s mine. And I don’t need to whore for this band. In fact, I don’t need to do anything if I don’t want to. I don’t even need to sing in a rock band.

  Fame is not my drug of choice. Money? I’ve made my money, and I’ve also learned my lessons. Nothing can hold power over you as long as you’re ready to walk away from it at a moment’s notice. And sure as hell, I’m ready to do just that.

  Ron’s made his money too, but he’s old school, and no matter how rich he’s gotten, the old rules are etched on his brain. They say you can’t forget your first love. I’d say you can’t forget your first real money.

  He’s made his fortune following the rules, climbing the ladder, using connections and opportunities. I give him credit for that. The thing is, I’ve made my money outside the entertainment business, inventing the rules. That’s why I don’t believe in this shit.

  He may be twenty years older and seasoned, but he’s not my boss. We both sink money into this band–– not that I’m complaining, we both rip the benefits as well, but I’m the front man, and like it or not, the face of the enterprise.

  The band is called Steel, as in River Steel, and if I walk, I walk with the whole darn thing, whether I want it or not. He knows it, and that’s why he lets me be, but like Miss Goddess in my bedroom, he tries to push my buttons once in a while.

  Lana, on the other hand, wants to mark her territory, play 'house,' make believe we’re a couple, do the talk. In her mind, hooking up, on and off, for three months or so, amounts to a full-fledged relationship. Not in my world, it doesn’t. Just because she’s a return customer doesn’t mean she owns the store.

  Things don’t go the way she wants, and any fool can see it, but if she wants to spin her wheels who am I to stop her? If she craves to be in the news, by all means, she can do it, but not with me, and that’s the end of it.

  I turn to her and kiss her cheek.

  “Tomorrow,” I say.

  Before she can wipe the resentment from her face and pull me into another useless conversation, I slip into the bathroom and shut the door behind me.

  Shit.

  It used to be easier.

  Lana Fox is not an accident. I’m not looking for a long-term commitment, and you wouldn’t say she’s looking for one either, but somehow one of her screws got loose along the way, and now she’s hunting me for something that I’m not.

  I like my ties loose, so nobody gets hurt. So far, so good. No casualties, only good time, and it’s all by design.

  It’s been my goal since Steve, my bodyguard, found an unconscious woman on the bathroom floor in my hotel room, three years ago. I thought Taylor was my soul woman. She seemed special, but as it turned out she wasn’t ready for the world I was cruising in, and she almost paid with her life.

  She fell and crashed right before my eyes, and by the time Jay, Steel’s guitar player, was fucking her behind my back, she was long lost. I thought he was smarter than that. I thought he’d know better than cross me and fall in love with a cheater.

  Their story didn’t last long, though. Once I broke up with her, she didn’t want him anymore. I suspect she never did. At least, not in the way he wanted her. She used him and tossed him to the side, but he was too blind to see. She broke his heart so easily and stupidly, and yet up to this day, the idiot blames it on me.

  She begged me to take her back. I knew there was nothing left for me. Plus, I how to spot a loss. I’m always ready to move on. Once she did that to herself, I knew there was nothing left for me as well.

  And then, as if it wasn’t bad enough, she tried to blackmail me, and after that, things got ten times worse.

  She explained everything to me, and I understood. Of course, I did. She couldn’t trust me. I knew all that. I’ve heard it all before. The money, the fame, the groupies. I’ve dealt with all of it. But I also knew that I was faithful to her, a man of my word. I did what I said I’d do, but in the end, it made no difference to her.

  She blamed everything on me, and then I realized, it wasn’t something I could fix for her. When it finally dawned on her that our break-up had nothing to do with me and everything to do with her, she was crushed.

  Up to this day, I have no fucking idea how she has broken into my hotel room. Steve didn’t let her in, and I believe him. Jay swears he didn’t let her in either, but I don’t trust him much.

  Steve found her unconscious, face down on the floor. She was lucky he was able to bring her back to life. That whole thing ripped my heart apart.

  It was one of the worst years of my life, and I swore I’d never let that happen again. I wish I could’ve made it right for her, but as it turned out, I wasn’t her man, and she wasn’t my woman, and in the end, we both realized that.

  Steve ran into her in LA, this past summer. She’s married to a ‘solid man,' Steve’s words, not mine. They have a beautiful girl, a split image of her. If it weren't for Steve, everything would’ve turned to dust.

  A beautiful life wasted. I don’t want that ever again.

  After Taylor, I lost faith, and I’ve never looked for someone like her again. I chose to ignore my heart and opted for convenience instead, and that’s exactly what I get most of these days. Dirty, emotionless sex. Beautiful women, empty shells. It works for them, and it works for me.

  Once in a while, I feel the wind blowing cold in my heart, and then I light up a glimmer of hope to keep me warm and tell myself that one day I’ll find what I’m looking for. Although I’ve lived long enough to know that soul women are like comets. They only show up once or twice in a lifetime.

  And if I’m lucky enough to have one show up for me, I better be ready for her. There are no second chances. There is no room for hesitation or mistakes unless I want to live and die with regret.

  2

  The concert is sold out again. It’s been like that for a while. The last album went platinum in a week. The audience has grown steadily throughout the years, and the money is in the live shows right now. So that’s what we’ve been doing for the past ten months or so.

  In between, we’ve laid tracks for the new album, most of it in our recording studio in Astoria, some of the vocal tracks in Ron’s home studio, on Long Island, NY.

  It’s November, and the end of the year is around the corner, so we’re just about to wrap it up. We have a few more shows before we take a break. We start touring again at the beginning of next year.

  After an hour of lifting weights, crashing fists into the boxing bag, and swimming, I forget about Lana. I spend another hour or so, warming up my voice.

  I love performing. To me, it’s so much more that an entertaining act. It allows me to share a part of me I wouldn’t be able to, otherwise. I can hardly be myself in my real life, surrounded
by so many people. The music allows me to express myself and connect with the public.

  A luxury, in many respects.

  Through music, I meet them halfway, and if they leave the show feeling better, about themselves and life in general, it means I’ve done something right.

  Everybody is in the room.

  Liam, the Steel’s drummer, Lucas, the bass player, Jay, and Ron, of course.

  We’re scheduled to go live in about half an hour. I strum a muted guitar, while Jay runs his fingers over his bass and Liam is doing his Zen routine.

  Eyes closed, he leans back into his chair, his fingers twitching on his thighs. His headphones are on. His tousled, brown-blonde hair brushes his shoulders.

  Slowly, his features relax.

  He's a good looking kid, barely twenty-one. Ron found him. I wonder if he paid any attention to how good Liam was with his drums. I bet he hired him as soon as he got a glimpse of his green eyes.

  He’s tall, ripped, and tattooed all over his chiseled arms. It happens he’s also a great drummer. Ron is lucky Liam’s got talent. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have heard the end of it from me. I’m not hooked on image as he is.

  Again, this is the old school talking. He comes from a different era, a time when the rock musicians were worshiped like Gods.

  The peddlers aka the business suits didn’t mind the label. The Rock Gods didn’t mind it either, and they also had a life to match, the perks on par with their status. Their legend brought in the screaming fans, and with that came the boatloads of cash.

  We’re still worshiped, but the business is no longer about the rock stars. Anyone with a phone, and decently skilled at taking pictures and writing a catchy line, can hold people’s attention these days.