Copyright © 2016 Nicole Simone
All rights reserved
No parts of this publication may be reproduced, disturbed or transmitted in any form or by any means including electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the written consent of the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are a products of the author’s imagination or used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or publisher.
Editor: C Marie
Proofreader: Ashley Williams.
Book design by Inkstain Interior Book Designing
Cover Designer: Romantic Book Affairs
Love of a Rockstar Series
Love of a Rockstar
To Cherish and To Hold
Broken Lullabies
Melody of Truth
Rhythm Blues - December 2016
Standalone Novels
Jagged Love
The Accidental Kiss
Twisted Fate Series
The Road in Between
The Road to Leading to You
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
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Acknowledgments
About Nicole
THIS WAS A TERRIBLE IDEA—worse than the time I ate a spider because my sister bet me fifty bucks I wouldn’t. As soon as my tongue brushed its furry legs, I hurled into the grass while she laughed, triumphant.
That was gross, but this—this was just plain stupid. I rolled my carryon suitcase off the plane and into the bustling Seattle airport. As I followed the signs for the taxicab pickup area, a war raged inside my brain.
A year ago, I was in Uganda filming a documentary about the genocide and interviewing victims who told stories so heartbreaking they stayed with me long after I returned home. Now I’m in Seattle to film the untold tale of Matthew Lee, former lead singer turned solo artist/rock god.
How the hell did this happen?
The diamond on my left ring finger flashed in the light, reminding me of the life I had run from in New York.
Right. Marco happened.
Marco was the man who captured my heart at twenty-two with his bronzed skin, tantalizing accent, and wavy Fabio-like locks; he practically dripped with sexuality. After returning back to the States from my year abroad in Spain where I met him, we formed a long-distance friendship. Then that friendship turned into more after a drunken one-night stand three months ago.
I honestly thought he would be gone in the morning when I woke up, but instead he never left.
Late at night as I lay in bed, my mind would wander to my future with Marco—what it would look like, how many kids we would have, where we would put down roots, the whole nine yards—except, try as I might, none of that appeared. It was like a filmstrip that had been damaged.
It didn’t make any sense to me. Marco was my dream guy and never in my wildest dreams had I thought I would get to call him mine forever. I should have been over the moon about our upcoming wedding, yet the ring he’d slipped on my finger felt like a vice. It could have been my fear of holy matrimony.
Yes, it had to be that—just simple pure fear; nothing to do with Marco.
Nonetheless, I placed the ring in my pocket and ignored the twinge of guilt in my stomach. I jumped into a yellow taxicab and arrived a few minutes early to the posh hotel where I was meeting the band.
A set of revolving doors spit me out into the white lobby, which was decorated with a rug that looked like a dead Muppet. There were beanbag chairs scattered around the lounge area to the left, along with long S-shaped couches in flaring hot pink that made me feel like I needed to be wearing sunglasses.
My rumbling stomach pointed me toward the hotel restaurant, which was designed more tastefully than the monstrosity of a lobby. I sidled up to the bar and placed my order with the bartender: a veggie hamburger and fries with extra salt.
Marco didn’t allow junk food in the apartment. He believed a pure body equaled a pure mind, or some crap like that. Honestly, I tuned him out when he started spouting his hippy dippy mumbo jumbo.
My mother had raised me on the preservatives he deemed evil and I had turned out fine—a little soft in the middle, but otherwise fine. Besides, it was sacrilegious to deny yourself a cookie every once in a while.
A heaping plate of food slid in front of me. The smell of grilled onions made my mouth salivate and I greedily dug in. At first bite, my eyes rolled to the back of my head.
“I admire a woman with a ferocious appetite.”
My gaze slid to the barstool next to mine, which was occupied by a man in his mid-forties with a horseshoe bald patch and a doughy jawline. The lecherous grin he wore spelled sleaze in bright red letters.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “But do you mind? I want to eat my meal in peace. It’s been a long day.”
“Of course. Go ahead.”
“Thank you.”
I could feel his eyes on me as my hands gripped the perfectly soft brioche bun. Watching someone eat was equivalent to following them into the bathroom—you just don’t do it.
Irritation snaked into my veins. Setting the burger down, I glanced back over at the stranger; he had that same grin on his face, and now it had climbed to pervert status. A couple years ago, I’d done a documentary on weird sexual fetishes, food being one of them. The slight rise in the man’s trousers proved what I had suspected; I swore freaks were attracted to me like moths to a flame.
I spoke bluntly. “Look, I know what you’re doing, and while everybody is entitled to their own kinks, I don’t want any part of it, capiche?”
He blinked innocently at me. “And what am I doing exactly?”
Ratfink bastard. I snatched my plate off the bar and moved to a booth in the far corner. While the man continued to stare, at least he didn’t have a front row seat any more. After polishing off my burger and fries, I hurriedly paid and walked to the front. As I passed the pervert, he swiveled in his seat with a bottle of ketchup in hand. The red liquid splashed onto my white button-down and a red stain blossomed as if I had been shot.
“What the fuck?” I screamed.
“Oh no! I’m so sorry, let me help.” He went toward my boobs with a napkin but then paused. “Or better yet, maybe you should take it off.”
Dots exploded in my peripheral as my body shook with anger. I grabbed hold of the ketchup and dumped it over the asshole’s head. His mouth formed a perfect O as it dripped into his eyes. Waiters hurried over, armed with cleaning supplies. I dismissed their help and exited the restaurant, leaving a wake of chaos.
Safely in the hallway, I gripped the sodden shirt between my fingertips and scowled. “This day can’t get any worse.”
The universe decided otherwise. Suddenly, a thousand-pound football player barreled into me, stealing the air from my lungs. My arms windm
illed at my sides as I attempted to keep both feet on the ground, which proved futile—I had the grace of a lumbering elephant. A shooting ache shot up my spine when my ass met the floor, and to my embarrassment, tears welled in the corners of my eyes.
“Holy shit!” the football player exclaimed. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you.”
“I was standing in the middle of the hallway.”
“Around a blind turn.”
Was he really pinning half the blame on me? I rubbed the base of my tailbone. “You’re right. Next time, I’ll stop in a more convenient location.”
“Are you bleeding?” Horror leaked into his voice.
An explanation was on the tip of my tongue but before it could come out, he gripped me by my elbows and yanked me upright. His large hands patted down my torso, checking for any injuries. The smell of juniper berries, fresh and sweet like the middle of an evergreen forest, caught me off guard. Instead of being outraged at him for feeling me up, I wanted to trace the vein in his neck with my tongue to see if he tasted like berries as well.
God, what was wrong with me?
His thumb brushed my nipple, and reality dumped itself over my head, colder than an ice bath. I shoved him backward with the heels of my palms. The brute barely moved an inch. “Jesus! Don’t you have any manners?”
“I thought you were hurt.”
“It’s ketchup you idiot.”
My eyes lifted and came in contact with none other than Sean Dallis, Matthew Lee’s drummer. His long whitish-blond locks swooped across his forehead, highlighting the blue in his irises, and a light tan dusted his cheeks. Sean looked like he belonged in the ocean, cruising the waves, his ripped torso glistening in the hot summer heat as he maneuvered the surfboard with ease.
“Ketchup? Huh.”
I could feel his assessing stare in every fiber of my being, melting my bones into a pile of goo. It made sense now why after Sean and his ex-wife's split had become public, women were offering themselves to him like a pint of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream.
My gaze flittered to my shirt, and then to the ground, where I studied a spot on the carpet as if it was a Picasso painting. I wracked my brain trying to think of a clever response but came up blank.
“How did that happen?”
Sean’s smooth voice skittered down my spine. “Some asshole spilled it on me as I was walking past him.” I grinned. “He looks worse than me though.”
“I somehow have no doubt about that.”
Matching Sean’s smile, my stomach tumbled, and I got lost in his eyes for a hot second. They were bluer than the waters of the Bahamas.
I cleared my throat and made a move to go around him. “Excuse me.”
His fingers gripped my upper arm while he looked at me with obvious interest. “What’s your name?”
“Melody.” Not a flicker of recognition flashed across his face. “I’m here for a meeting with Matthew Lee and the rest of the band, including you.”
“Wait, you’re the filmmaker?”
“Is that so hard to believe?”
Sean’s brow pinched together as if he were trying to solve a complex puzzle. It was a reaction I got often. People didn’t expect a petite woman like myself to venture into the most dangerous places in the world with a camera in tow.
“I just thought you would be…”
“Someone taller with a unibrow and a fat hairy upper lip?”
He smiled. “Maybe.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
“Trust me, it’s far from a disappointment.”
Warning lights flashed as I grinned back at him, my heart palpitating. Touring with a bunch of rock stars—especially one as tempting as Sean—took the cake for worst idea ever.
THE DARK CAST OF THE hallway sent shadows dancing across her jagged features. She was beautiful, but not in the conventional way. She didn’t have pouty lips or bright blue doe eyes that blinked with innocence, the standard sort I normally went for—which now seemed utterly mundane, like a Mapex drum set.
As a musician who lived his life in the limelight, I was used to women’s sultry gazes that practically said, You can fuck me anywhere, any time. The ring on my left hand had prevented me from taking them up on the offer and even after the divorce, my dick had stayed firmly in my pants. No woman had incited a flicker of interest until that moment, and my skin felt stripped raw underneath her inky black irises.
“I really have to get changed before the meeting starts. A huge ketchup stain on my t-shirt doesn’t send the best first impression.” Her maroon painted lips thinned as she paled. “Shit, I got it on you too.”
Huh? Glancing downward, I saw the source of her panic: a crimson mark on my ratty vintage cutoff T-shirt. “It’s fine. I’m just glad you weren’t hurt by my unintentional tackle.”
“My tailbone is a little sore, but otherwise I’m fit as a fiddle.”
“Do you have an extra outfit?”
Melody looked at her carryon. I was taken aback at the small suitcase, which appeared as if it could only fit a couple items of clothing. My ex-wife brought a U-Haul for an overnighter, saying it was better to be prepared than underprepared.
As if Melody sensed my disbelief, she grinned. “I’m used to traveling light. It’s easier to lug around when you’re hopping trains in Vietnam or walking through the jungles of Columbia.”
“You’ve done those things?”
“Yes, haven’t you?”
I laughed at her smart-ass remark. “Touring as a musician doesn’t leave time for exploring. You are on the road, the stage, or the tour bus.”
“How do you seek inspiration if not through the world?”
“I don’t need inspiration to play the drums.”
“Everybody needs inspiration,” she said passionately.
I had been a drummer since the age of two, banging on pots and pans in the kitchen while my mother cooked dinner. Twenty-something years later, it had become muscle memory.
Melody didn’t seem as if she be would content with that answer though, so I changed the subject. “The women’s bathroom is out of order, but I’m sure there is another one around here somewhere.”
“There isn’t time. I pride myself on being punctual and I’m already cutting it close.” She looked around and unzipped her suitcase.
Shock shot straight through my system when her fingers went to the pearl inlay buttons on her blouse. “What are you doing?”
“I’m changing. Will you keep watch?” A laugh as rich as warmed milk erupted from her throat at my unblinking expression. “Have I offended your delicate morals?”
“No. You just caught me off guard, which I thought was impossible after years of living in the realm of musicians.”
“When you’re abroad, you don’t have the luxuries of home, like privacy, for example. I’ve gotten used to being naked around relative strangers and sometimes forget how prudish America is.”
I had been called a panty charmer, a rock god of sin, but never a prude. “Lesson number one, Melody, don’t challenge the bull unless you’re willing to take the horns.”
“Any other cliché metaphors you have up your sleeve? Because if not…” She gestured with her finger for me to face the opposite way.
My feet stuck to the carpet for a beat in disbelief at her spitfire personality. I'm not going to lie, it was sexy as hell.
Melody gave me a look of pure impatience. Grinning, my palms shot upward in front of me. “I’m going.”
Once my back faced her, the buzz of the hotel dimmed and the sound of each button popping open was magnified tenfold. My imagination filled in what I couldn’t see: a lacy white bra cupping her round supple breasts. My throat went dry as the desert as my pulse skipped. Lust surged straight to my dick and it twitched painfully against the zipper of my pants. I had to live on the tour bus with Melody for the next two months and if I knew what was good for me, I’d resist her at all costs. She had the potential to ruin my image, yet nothing had ever tempted me more.
Her voice cut into my thoughts. “Ready?”
As she skipped past me, my eyes zeroed in on her ass and I nearly screamed at how unfair it was.
I discreetly adjusted myself and banished the image of Melody in anything but a nun’s habit to the back of my mind. Easier said than done.
LUKE, NOAH, ASH, AND Matthew were sitting on the hot pink couch with their heads bent together, talking. Melody’s hips swung as she crossed the lobby and drew stares from the other men. I wanted to break their necks. She wasn’t theirs to ogle. My footsteps faltered at my unjustified possessiveness.
“Hey, I’m sorry I’m late,” Melody said to my bandmates, who were looking at her as if she had grown three heads.
They hadn’t expected her to be as arresting as she was either.
Luke spoke first. “No worries. I’m guessing you’re Melody?”
“Yes, and you’re Luke. I recognize your voice.”
He stuck out his hand and she shook it lightly. “It’s nice to meet you,” he said with a smile.
Melody pointed to Ash. “And you’re Ash, the lead guitar player.”
“Correct.”
She continued pointing out the rest of the members along with their titles, proving she had done her homework. Noah, our new bass player, inched to the edge of the couch and made a minuscule space for Melody to sit.
“Why don’t you take the chair?” I said to her, ignoring Luke and Matthew’s inquisitive stares.
Melody plopped herself in the armchair without protest, and I claimed the spot on the couch.
“Have you guys met before?” Matthew asked curiously.
With her head buried in her handbag, Melody’s voice came out muffled. “Briefly in the hall.”
Shooting a look over at me, Matthew arched a brow that said he would find out the rest later—except there wasn’t anything to tell.
She laid out a colorful array of pens on the table, grabbed one, and settled back into the chair with a notebook open on her lap.
An hour later, we had gone through the logistics, like what she would need from us, her process, and lastly, her promise to stay out of our way. Melody wanted this documentary to be as natural as a home movie, really show who Matthew Lee and his band were, hence why she didn’t have a film crew. The footage would be shot on a handheld camera manned by Melody herself. My respect for her went up a few notches by the end of the discussion, as did my attraction.
Melody of Truth (Love of a Rockstar Book 3) Page 1
