The Complete Rockstar Series

by Heather C. Leigh

  “Winner, by knockout, the new light heavyweight champion of the London Underground fighting circuit, Dax Daaaaavies!”

  Tasha grabs my arm. “Did you see that, Kate? That was incredible!”

  I blink rapidly, not understanding what just happened. “No. What?”

  Her eyebrows pinch together. “Dax just pummeled that guy to the mat. You didn’t see it? How could you not?”

  Certainly, I’m blushing again. Or I would be if my skin weren’t already flushed from staring at a half-naked Dax and his gorgeous muscles.

  “Oh, I see,” Tasha smirks. “Too busy getting an eyeful of Mr. Davies’ arse to watch the action.”

  I huff in protest. “No. I was watching the action. I just didn’t comprehend what was going on.”

  “Mmmmm-hmmm. Riiiight, Kate.”

  “Whatever, Tash. Don’t be cheeky.” I huff, feigning annoyance. She’s right… I was watching Dax. He was stunning up there, like a sculpture come to life. His body was fluid and graceful, even as he used it to execute an extreme level of controlled violence.

  “Oi! You aren’t supposed to be here!”

  Startled, Tasha and I whirl around to see Mr. Big and Creepy, the bloke from the front door, storming over to us with a daunting scowl on his face. The punters in the crowd dispersed immediately after the fight, either to collect their winnings or go home as losers, so our safety in numbers has been blown.

  “What do we do?” I whisper to Tasha.

  “Leave it to me.” Tasha grins at the angry man, projecting complete confidence. “Where do you want us?” She flutters her eyelashes ridiculously.

  Jeez, she really does want to walk on the wild side.

  “After the fight, you’re supposed to be in the back room with my brother.” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder, indicating a lone door on one side of the large open space.

  So he is Dax’s brother. That explains the matching glacial expressions.

  “Sorry, love. We were just chatting,” Tasha says with a flirty tone in her voice.

  The man’s frigid exterior melts a tiny fraction at Tasha’s playfulness. “Yeah, well, don’t lounge about. Get moving. You can’t keep a bloke waiting forever.”

  “Sure thing, gorgeous.” Tasha takes my hand, walking me towards the door. On our way past the large, menacing man, she drags a painted fingernail across his chest and purses her lips. “See you later.”

  He grunts, and I swear I wouldn’t have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes, the man smiles. The big scary iceman has feelings, who knew?

  Once we’re out of earshot, I whisper to Tasha, “What in bloody hell are we doing?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispers, panic in her voice. “I just played it by ear. It seemed safest to do what he said.” Tasha looks me in the eye as her hand rests on the doorknob.

  “We don’t know who or what is in there, Tash.” I’m shaking all over. The adrenaline rush from watching Dax fight is gone, leaving me to deal with its uncomfortable aftereffects.

  “It seems a better choice than dealing with that bloke. Although, he is rather sexy, don’t you think?”

  “No, Tasha. I don’t think that!” I hiss.

  I look over my shoulder and see Mr. Big and Creepy staring directly at us, waiting for us to open the door. He has a knowing expression in his dark eyes. Something about it is telling me to be worried what we’ll find on the other side.

  “Here goes nothing.” Tasha turns the knob and pushes the door open.

  We both freeze at the sight in front of us. This room is clearly some sort of locker room or changing room—how I manage to notice my surroundings I don’t know, but I do. The walls are covered with shelving stuffed with equipment. Gloves hang on various pegs and there’s a pile of towels in one corner. But it’s what is seated on the small wooden bench in the center of the room that catches our attention and crushes my heart.

  Or should I say who?

  Dax is sitting, completely naked, with his head thrown back and eyes closed. Droplets of water cling to his body and his hair is damp, indicating he just took a shower. His lips are parted in ecstasy, the angled planes of his jawline clearly visible. This is not the cold, hard façade I’m used to seeing.

  Soft grunts can be heard as they escape from his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallows. Dax’s large, bruised hands are buried in the blonde hair of the girl kneeling between his legs, controlling her movements as she loudly and enthusiastically sucks his cock.

  “Holy—” Tasha whispers, not meaning to speak but too shocked to keep quiet.

  Dax’s head snaps up, those deep chocolate eyes locking onto mine even as the girl’s head continues dipping up and down in front of him. As the tears begin to well up, the horrible scene in front of me goes fuzzy. Not enough that I don’t register the horror on Dax’s face before the tears are too thick to see. Unable to do anything else, I turn and run.

  I realize I’ve put Dax up on a pedestal all these years without ever really knowing a thing about him. Now that I’ve seen who he is—what he is—I’m done. I am getting the hell out of this sodding town, leaving Dax Davies and my shattered heart behind.

  46

  Six months later

  Dax

  “Gorgeous, aren’t they?” I have my arms around two girls, one on each side. They want me so badly they’re practically humping my legs. Getting women in L.A. is easy. I don’t have to work for it at all. Hawke says it’s the British accent. I have to agree. It makes American women strip their clothes off faster than you can say ‘shag me’.

  “Lovely,” Adam growls, in a piss poor mood again.

  I stifle a growl. “Ladies, excuse me for a moment.” They giggle ridiculously as I grab my mate’s arm and shove him into a corner of the loud club.

  “Fuck off, Davies.” He drains the rest of his drink, slamming the glass down on a nearby table.

  “When are you going to start having fun? You going to spend the rest of your life moping around because Ellie broke up with you? It’s been two months, Reynolds. Haven’t any of those American pussies made you forget about her yet?” I lean into Adam’s space, practically snarling at him.

  “What do you care? Go fuck your tarts and leave me be.” Adam sounds angry and determined, but his eyes tell a different story. They’re the eyes of a broken man. I would know. I see the exact same thing in the mirror every day since I fucked up with Kate.

  It’s why I’m so cheesed off at his behavior. When I see him self-destruct, when I watch him try to fuck Ellie out of his head, I’m reminded of my own actions, my own hurt, my own screw-ups with Kate.

  I shrug off the memories. I don’t need her or any other girl. I’ve got a successful band, my father doesn’t have any say over my life anymore, and I have more women available than I ever could have imagined.

  So why do I still obsess over one woman in particular?

  “I care because you’re my best mate and you’re miserable! I care because the band needs you and you’re bloody rat-arsed all the fucking time! I care because you’re a mess and I’m tired of having to mind you all the damn time!”

  I don’t shout out that I need him to move on and stop reminding me of the girl I left back home. A girl who is now in the same city as me. Thinking about Kate makes me feel like the biggest fucking bastard in the world.

  Adam’s brows come together at my chastising. The dark look he gives me is shocking. Adam is always happy. It’s not always genuine, but he puts up a good front. Tonight is the first time I’ve ever seen such a furious expression on his face.

  “You’re not my keeper, Davies! I’m not your bloody responsibility. If you don’t like what I’m doing, then don’t fucking watch!” He shoves past me, knocking me back with his shoulder as he heads for the bar.

  Stunned, I return to the two attractive girls I left on the edge of the dance floor, my mood now dark and dangerous. “Ladies, I’ll have to take a rain check. Sorry,” I growl.

  They pout, but
I’m halfway to the exit so I don’t hear their protests. The familiar agitation roars through me, flooding my veins with rage. The same feeling I used to get back in Hackney when I had no choice but to follow my dad’s orders. If there’s one thing that can unsettle me and drive me over the edge, it’s not being in control of my own life.

  I don’t care about people. Ever.

  These fucking feelings of helplessness, of giving a shit that I let Kate down, of not being able to just let it go and be the cold prick I know I am—it has my skin crawling and my fists eager for a fight.

  Outside, I hail a cab and give the address of a run down gym near my flat. It’s for serious martial artists, boxers and the like, open until after midnight most nights. While the driver weaves in and out of heavy L.A. traffic, I think about that night in Hackney. The night that took everything I knew to be true about myself and turned it all into a lie.

  My cock was buried deep in the throat of the slag my dad hired for my reward when the locker room door opened. She was giving me one of the best blowjobs of my life, yet all I can remember from that night is the wounded, desolate look on Kate’s gorgeous face.

  Shit. Pining after a girl. Maybe I’m more like Adam than I thought. Only, instead of using a bottle to bury my pain, I use my fists.

  Kate

  “You really won the roommate lottery, Kate.” My friend Abby glances over at Lila’s side of the room with disgust. Designer clothes are tossed everywhere, littering the bed and the floor—even her desk. The sarcasm in Abby’s voice is evident.

  “You don’t know half of it.” I throw my Intro to Psychology textbook into my duffel with my footy gear and zip it closed. “She’s got a different bloke in here just about every night.”

  Abby’s eyebrows shoot up, “Every night?”

  I nod. “Just about. It’s so bloody inconvenient. She made a rule that if one of us is in here having it off, you put a sock on the doorknob so the other won’t come in and interrupt.” I stifle a smile when Abby bursts out laughing. We’re in a class together and became fast friends.

  “She’s unbelievable,” Abby chokes out.

  I roll my eyes. “Yeah. She’s something.”

  “Why is she even here? At UCLA? Or in the dorms for that matter?” Abby asks as we head for the lifts to take us downstairs. “Clearly she has money. And she isn’t here to study.”

  The doors to the lift slide open. A few students exit before we get on. “I guess she’s here for the shagging,” I joke, only, that’s not far from the truth when it comes to my perpetually randy flatmate.

  “Huh. What a waste.” Abby is shaking her head. “I’d love to get inside that brain of hers.”

  We walk outside into the bright L.A. sun. September has just begun and it’s hot and sunny, as it’s been every day of the last four weeks since I arrived. “You and your psychoanalyzing.”

  “Hey!” Abby bumps hips with mine. “That interest in psychoanalyzing is going to help you pass Psych 101. Where would you be without me?”

  Indeed. Where would I be? I’d be in L.A. alone, no friends, no Dax, no Ellie, no anything. The thought has me resolving to try harder to find out where Ellie is staying. Classes started two weeks ago and I haven’t heard a thing from her. I’m listed in the campus directory but still, no call.

  Tomorrow, I’ll call the Department of Student Services and see if they can give me any information. I may not have Dax, but I can always count on my best mate. And right now, I could really use another friend. Someone I can lean on.

  I never spoke to Dax again after the night Tasha and I literally caught him with his pants down. I couldn’t bear to face him knowing that I had absolutely no place in his life. That whatever we had between us was about as important to him as clipping his fingernails and choosing what socks to wear.

  “I think I’m going to go on that date with that guy from the men’s footy team,” I blurt out randomly. Maybe a new bloke will help me forget about Dax. “The one who asked me to dinner last week.”

  “Really?” Abby sounds confused. “I thought you told him no.”

  I did tell him no. I had still been holding out hope that things may work out between Dax and me. “I told him I had to think about it. Not a flat out no.”

  “Good for you. So far, all I’ve seen you do is study and practice. That’s not much of a life. This is college. Time to figure out who you are and what you want.”

  “Yeah,” I respond quietly.

  Too bad what I want isn’t ever going to be mine.

  Dax

  “Dude! You’re a machine!”

  I ignore the kid who walks up next to where I’m working with the heavy bag. I hit it over and over in the exact same routine my dad had me do back home. Going through the familiar motions gives me peace. It lets my mind focus solely on the power in my body as it comes into contact with the thick, padded surface. Each strike serves as a reminder of who I really am.

  My father’s son. A violent, unfeeling bastard.

  I continue pummeling the bag, kicking and punching over and over again. Sweat is pouring off of me, dripping off my body and onto the mat. Concentrating on making each strike perfect is supposed to keep my mind from wandering. Keep out the unwelcome emotions that surge forward when I think of Kate.

  Yet she creeps in constantly. Between each flying kick I remember her bright green eyes. Between each punch I remember the way her face lights up when she smiles. Between each jab, I remember how she tasted when I kissed her. Between each front kick, I remember how I fucked it all up.

  I stop, my hands hanging at my sides as my chest heaves up and down. Frustration and anger eat away at me, boiling up like acid inside. Yanking off my gloves, I throw them on the floor, disgusted.

  I have total control over my body. It pisses me off that I can’t exert that same control over my mind. I don’t let anything bother me. Ever. I don’t allow emotions to control me. This powerlessness over my own thoughts has turned me into raging lunatic.

  A male voice snaps me out of the dark place I’m in, bringing my attention back to the gym.

  “Hey man, that was awesome! Do you fight professionally?”

  After wiping off with a towel, I glance over at the enthusiastic kid standing in front of me. “Who are you?” I’ve been here dozens of times, but don’t recognize this overly excited bloke.

  Eager as shit, the kid bounces on the balls of his toes. “Zane. Zane Denninger.”

  “Dax Davies.” I eye him up and down as we shake hands. “You’re a fighter?” Kid’s way too small to be much good in the cage. Maybe flyweight, but even then I’d have a hard time believing it.

  His cheeks turn pink. “Nah. I work the desk here. I do some kickboxing, but only for exercise.”

  “I see. And the answer to your question is no, I don’t fight professionally.” I don’t see the point in discussing my past with a stranger so I make no mention of my days in Hackney.

  “You should,” he says. “You’re really good.”

  I stare at Zane curiously. Why is he talking so much? “Nah, I can’t. Musician.” I hold up my hands. “If I injure them, I’m out of work.”

  He nods rapidly, up and down, up and down. Christ, the kid has more energy than anyone I’ve ever seen. He makes me feel old, and he can’t be but a year or two younger than me.

  “Gotcha. Music, cool. I always wanted to work in the entertainment industry. It’s why I moved out here.” Zane shrugs. “No talent though.” He grins. “Well, I better get back to work. See you around.”

  With that, he turns on his heel and walks back to the front desk.

  People in L.A. are so fucking weird. At least his blathering made me forget about Kate for a whole minute and a half. Now I understand why Adam drinks—to numb the mind, shut it off, have a bit of peace—if only for a little while. Unlike Adam, I’m not willing to sit back and let my life go on without me.

  Since I can’t stop thinking about Kate, I need to accept that I fucked up and take charge of th
e situation. If I have to see her and beg for her forgiveness to move on and get this shit out of my head, then that’s what I’ll do. I’ll be damned if I let something as pointless as emotions torture me for weeks, months, or fuck, even years.

  Dax Davies doesn’t sit back and let shit happen. I grab it, control it, and make that shit mine.

  47

  Kate

  “I’m glad you agreed to go out with me tonight. I had fun.” Mateo flashes me one of his brilliant white grins, the dimple in his left cheek visible. It looks good on him. He really is a good-looking bloke.

  “Me too,” I reply automatically, giving him what I hope is a convincing smile.

  Mateo walks me up to the door of my building where we stand a few feet apart, staring at each other awkwardly.

  “So, can I see you again?” His dark eyes are fixed on me, unwavering. I shiver with deja vu. I want to run away from those familiar eyes. That wouldn’t be fair. It’s not Mateo’s fault that they remind me of someone else’s deep brown gaze.

  A sophomore, Mateo is here from Barcelona on a football scholarship—same as me. The girl’s footy team does a few events with the men, which is how we met. He asked me out twice before I reluctantly agreed.

  It doesn’t hurt that Mateo is easy to look at—tan skin, eyes so dark they almost look black, full lips, and perfect teeth. His slightly too-long hair always falls into his eyes, which makes him that much sexier. Plus, since he’s a footy player he’s super fit. He reminds me of a Spanish version of Oliver Giroud. Only, I can’t bring myself to see him as more than a friend.

  I’m the only one who gets the friend vibe from Mateo. Nearly all of my teammates are jealous that he asked me out. Yet I can’t seem to find the proper amount of enthusiasm. My heart just won’t let go of the past. Ten years of believing you were meant for someone else isn’t an easy thing to move past. God knows I’m trying.