Beauty in the Breakdown (A Rock Star Romance Novel)

by Natalie Baird

  BEAUTY IN THE BREAKDOWN

  A Rock Star Romance Novel

  By

  Natalie Baird

  Smashwords Edition

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Roslyn House Publishing on Smashwords

  Beauty in the Breakdown: A Rock Star Romance Novel

  Copyright © 2013 by Natalie Baird

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  Adult Reading Material

  The material in this document contains explicit sexual content that is intended for mature audiences only and is inappropriate for readers under 18 years of age.

  BEAUTY IN THE BREAKDOWN:

  A Rock Star Romance Novel

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 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

  Epilogue

  About The Author

  Chapter One

  Beyond the rows of clear and amber liquor, I caught sight of my reflection in the bar's mirrored backsplash. It was clear from one cursory glance that I did not belong there. I leaned my elbows on the slick black bar and tore them away just as quickly—the surface was sticky and smelled sickly sweet. Some place for an interview, I thought, adjusting my headband in the mirror. My straight black hair fell down my back in a well-kept flow, but somehow I didn’t think that anyone in this joint would appreciate my grooming skills very much.

  I glanced around the dive bar and tried like hell not to turn my nose up at it. Nestled into a hole in the wall in the Lower East Side of Manhattan, the place was dimly lit, nearly empty, and as grimy as it gets. It certainly wasn’t the kind of establishment that I frequented when I had my druthers. I spun anxiously on my ripped bar stool, shooting the bartender a dirty look when I felt his eyes resting on my breasts, nestled though they were in a polo tee. I suddenly doubted the glass of red wine I’d ordered—I wouldn’t have put it past the bearded man behind the bar to slip something into it when I wasn’t looking.

  As the dusty jukebox wheezed with the effort of changing tracks, I consulted my phone for the umpteenth time. He was half an hour late, the man who had requested my presence. And he had insisted that we meet in this place alone. I sighed heavily, knowing that to passersby, I must look like a preppy tight ass. My facial expressions and posture did nothing to hide my disapproval of this place.

  My boss told me that this was supposed to be a business meeting, so I went ahead and dressed the part. But I was starting to get the feeling that this wasn’t going to be like any business meeting I’d ever had.

  The door of the bar creaked open, and I looked up expectantly, hoping it would be the man I was there to see. My face fell as I spotted a tattooed couple sauntering across the threshold. Their eyes landed on me and rested there for a moment. I could feel them sizing me up. They probably thought I was crazy, or lost, or both. I drew myself up on my barstool, trying not to feel self conscious. I was just a typical yuppie young lady rocking a pencil skirt in a dive bar. No big deal, I reassured myself.

  I took a slow sip of my wine, throwing caution to the wind. I was starting to get the terrible feeling that I had been stood up for this interview. This whole thing hadn’t made any sense to begin with, and at first I figured that my boss, Kellan, had been messing with me.

  Earlier that day, he had hurried over to my desk at our small office in midtown Manhattan, with a satisfied grin plastered onto his face.

  “Alexa,” he breathed excitedly, looking for the world like a little boy on Christmas morning.

  “Yes?” I asked, eyeing him sceptically.

  Kellan was not a man who ruffled easily. The last time I’d seen him anywhere near this level of excitement was when his first child had been born.

  “I’m about to give you the scoop of a lifetime,” he said, leaning across my desk.

  “OK, OK,” I’d drawled, going along with his act, “Do I get to take out the garbage again today? Or plan the company Christmas party?”

  “I’m serious,” he said, and I could tell from the sudden glimmer in his eye that he was telling the truth.

  “What is it?” I asked quietly.

  “I have two words for you,” Kellan whispered, “Jackson. Brent.”

  “The rock star Jackson Brent?” I asked, confused, “What about him?”

  “He wants to meet you,” Kellan said, bouncing on the balls of his feet, “Isn’t that fantastic?”

  I’d felt my head cock to the side as I looked up at my boss. Kellan had founded the magazine we both currently worked for, a pretty successful rag called The Beat. When I graduated a couple of years back, Kellan had just started to kick his operation into high gear, looking for new talent wherever he could find it. I was fresh out of undergrad and totally inexperienced in the real world of media journalism.

  Journalism had been my major, and I’d had an internship with my hometown newspaper, but I had never actually written any legitimate articles. As a college student, I maintained a blog called “LexiCon”, which at the time seemed like a very clever play on my name and perpetually cynical outlook. I wrote culture reviews and had a good hundred followers, but it never really took off.

  I found Kellan by chance. One afternoon I was scrolling through Craigslist, becoming depressed by the fact that the only job postings were for go-go dancers and x-rated models, when one ad in particular caught my eye. “Write for the best,” it had read, “Music and culture mag looking for fresh meat.” I immediately jumped on the listing and tracked down Kellan’s contact information. I had just graduated college at that point, and was about to be cut off by my parents. They’d always been super supportive, but they certainly didn’t have the money to pay for my NYC housing indefinitely.

  I probably sent Kellan a half dozen letters, every single writing sample I could get my hands on, and a couple recommendations from professors. I stopped just short of sending him a lock of my own hair to seal my application...half-serious; 2009 was a bad year to graduate.

  To my astonishment and glee, he actually called me in for an interview and hired me on the spot. We both knew he was taking a huge chance on me, and I had been fiercely loyal to him ever since. He practically adopted me into his own little family and took me under his wing professionally. I owed everything to him, which was why I was so concerned that he was going off the deep end with this Jackson Brent business.

  “You hate Jackson Brent,” I'd reminded him that afternoon, “We both do. He’s an unwashed, womanizing dog with an affinity for power chords.”

  “Yes,” Kellan smiled, “And he wants to meet you.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked, wanting very badly to get back to article I was writing.

  “I just got off the phone with him,” Kellan continued, “You’re never going to believe this...”

  Kellan explained to me that he had spent all of ten minutes talking to the international super star. The call had been completely unexpected—Kellan had never even been in the same room with Jackson before. But Mr. Brent had been very insistent upon talking to Kellan about, of all things, my writing. For some reason, Jackson Brent was hell bent on meeting me. The trouble was, the rock star had neglected t
o give a reason. Nonetheless, Kellan accepted on my behalf, and Jackson gave him the name of a dive bar on the Lower East Side. His only additional request was that I wear something “appropriately sexy”.

  When Kellan had finished telling me all this, he was surprised to see my disgusted expression. I’d informed him, in no uncertain terms, that I was utterly opposed to meeting up with this Jackson character alone. The man was a famous hound, with so many notches in his bedpost that he probably slept on a pile of kindling. I could tell what it was all about. Jackson had probably seen my photo on a music blog or contributor’s page somewhere and decided that he wanted a piece.

  I knew I wasn't an unattractive woman, and I put in a fair amount of effort every morning to look presentable. But I also wasn't model-skinny, like most of the groupies Jackson was probably used to. However I was perfectly comfortable in my skin. I was proud of my nice, soft curves and I owned them. I had found, in my twenty-four years on the planet, that most men liked them plenty well too.

  Jackson wouldn’t be the first one to come calling based on some internet portrait, but I wasn’t about to make myself available to him for no good reason. I had way higher standards than that, when it came to how a man might treat me.

  But Kellan had positively begged me to at least hear the guy out. He explained that, should I land an exclusive cover interview with Jackson, the sales of that issue would do well to put his two kids through college. He promised me more work, better work, an extra week of vacation, anything I wanted. We’d come to a very fair settlement, in my opinion. I would give this Jackson person an hour of my time if Kellan would bring me coffee every morning for the next year and give me the official title of Senior Editor at The Beat.

  And so, here I found myself perched on a rickety bar stool at 10pm, looking like a J.Crew ad in a place that seemed better acquainted with Ed Hardy. Though Jackson had apparently been dead set on this interview, he was now forty-five minutes late. My parents had raised me to be punctual to a fault, so this kind of tardiness was completely incomprehensible to me. I checked my reflection in the mirror again, straightened the collar of my shirt, and heaved another sigh. The grungy couple sitting down the bar gave me a couple of sceptical once-overs and turned back to their drinks. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed the bartender leering at me once again, so I downed the last of my wine and headed for the juke box.

  Musically, my tastes were all over the map. I’d grown up on Simon and Garfunkel, Joni Mitchell, and Cat Stevens. My mother had worshiped Carole King and my father couldn’t get enough of the Rolling Stones. As I got older, I went through plenty of phases where music was concerned: punk, grindcore, blue grass, electronic, soul, jazz, the works. But in my heart I was a folk rock type, through and through. And so when I saw that Bob Dylan was heavily represented in this particular juke box, I smiled happily. I selected “Positively Fourth Street,” in honor of the bar’s NYC location, and bopped my hips ever-so-slightly as the song began to play.

  An excited squeal from the front of the bar ripped my attention away from the song. I turned to see the tattooed chick going into a fit of hysteria over something. My eyes followed her gaze and nearly popped out of my head when I caught a glimpse of the man who had just walked into the bar.

  He had to have been at least six feet tall, with wide shoulders and a narrow waist. His bulging muscles made themselves known through his perfectly tailored button-up and slacks, and I could see his piercing blue eyes even in the darkness of the bar. The features of his face were defined, but not harsh. His jaw line was like a razor’s edge, and dark stubble danced across it. His hair was a short tumble of pitch black curls, and he had the nose of a marble statue. Everything about was him fine-tuned and perfectly balanced, and you could tell from looking at him that this man was born for the bedroom. He was confident, direct, and absolutely stunning.

  “Why couldn’t that be the guy I’m supposed to be meeting?” I muttered to myself, as I made my way back to the bar. Knowing my luck, Jackson Brent was going to show up wearing unwashed shades of black with a wad of chewing tobacco stuck in his cheek. I’d never actually seen a clear picture of the guy, just action shots from concerts. All the pictures of him were the same—a sweaty, slick, face obscured by a heavy curtain of black tendrils. He was exactly what you’d expect from a rock star, and exactly the opposite of my type.

  However, I couldn’t keep my eyes off the man who had just walked into the bar. He was politely chatting with the tattooed couple, who were treating him like some kind of celebrity. I scrutinized him out of the corner of my eye, amazed at the magnetic effect he seemed to have on me. I could feel every cell in my body humming with the need to be closer to him. It was a completely unfamiliar experience—usually I was a pro at keeping my head around attractive men. I interviewed and wrote about musicians all day, so I definitely had some experience. But this guy was getting to me.

  He leaned forward and beckoned to the barkeep. A smile spread across his strong jaw, the corners of his firm lips turned up ever-so-slightly. It was the kind of smile that could snag a girl’s heart and drag her just about anywhere. It was a dangerous smile, is what it was—positively barbed.

  “Excuse me?” the man said in a charming British cadence, “Has a woman named Alexa stopped in?”

  I felt the room spin around me, and it certainly wasn’t because of the one glass of wine I’d had. This man was looking for me, which had to mean he was—

  “Jackson?” I spluttered inelegantly.

  He turned to me, clearly satisfied to see that I had been waiting for him after all.

  “Are you Alexa?” he asked, giving me a not-too-subtle once over.

  “Yes,” I said, trying not to let him see how flustered I was. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even recognize you. You look different than your pictures. A lot more...”

  “Clean?” he offered with a laugh. “Yes, I’m afraid the rock star look is just part of the act. I like to shower in my civilian life. May I join you over there love?”

  I forced a meek smile, I was no match for this guy, and he knew he had me in his palm already.

  “Of course,” I said, gesturing to the empty bar stool next to me. “You’re the one who called this little meeting, after all.”

  “I did,” he agreed. In two long strides he was beside me. As he drew nearer by the inch, I was amazed at the effect his mere proximity was having on me. It was almost as though the air around him was growing hotter.

  I shook my head, trying to dislodge my ridiculous feelings. I thought, somewhat bitterly, that I was absolutely star-struck. This is probably how Jackson Brent landed all of his one night stands, by showing up and letting fame take care of the rest. Well, I decided that I wasn’t going to let myself be swayed so easily. I’d always been extremely picky with guys, and there was no reason to amend my standards now—not for a nice jaw line and some tailored slacks. I straightened my back and folded my hands on my lap, attempting to project a professional attitude. We had, after all, come there for reasons that presumably had to do with business. Though with the way that he was looking at me, I couldn’t be too sure.

  “What is it?” I asked, when his stare lingered longer than I could stand.

  “Sorry,” he smiled, his lovely accent taking the edge off, “It’s just that you look different than I imagined, is all.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, raising an eyebrow, “You’ve seen my picture, haven’t you?”

  “Nope,” he replied, “I can’t say that I have.”

  I searched his face for a sign of deceit. He had to be lying. If he wasn’t trying to turn me into a business booty call, then why in the world had he contacted me in the first place? I wasn’t exactly a world renowned journalist, after all. I hadn’t recognized him either, I reasoned. Maybe I looked different in person than I did online?

  “What were you expecting?” I asked, tucking a loose strand of hair back into my headband.

  “Someone older,” he said, leaning toward me ev
er-so-slightly, "May I?"

  I felt my breath catch in my throat as he reached for my hand. Smirking at me, he brought my fingers to his lips, brushing a light kiss onto my hand. I steadied myself on the barstool, completely caught off guard. “It’s lovely to make you’re acquaintance,” he went on, “I admit I’m pleasantly surprised.”

  I jerked my hand from his, trying to ignore the sparkling heat that shot through me when his lips had touched my skin. Something in the very core of me was crying out for him, egging the rest of me on. But I’d never been one to let desire get the best of me. It wasn’t that I was a prude, far from it. Sure, I could count the men I’d slept with on one finger, but that didn’t seem like such a travesty to me. My parents hadn’t raised me very religiously, so the idea of virginity wasn’t an issue in and of itself. What they did drill into my head growing up, however, was that I needed to wait to have sex until I met someone who was good enough for me. They never specified the parameters of that goodness, but since they always taught me to love and respect myself, it was hard to imagine a guy who would be worth it.

  I wondered what they’d think if they could see me at that moment, huddled over a sticky bar in a rat-infested joint on the Lower East Side, getting overtly hit on by some famous scumbag I’d never met. It was the thought of my family that turned my polite smile into a grimace, one that I turned on Jackson unabashedly. I folded my arms across my chest, hoping to obscure some of the more alluring bits of my body, and narrowed my eyes at the rock star.