Beauty in the Breakdown (A Rock Star Romance Novel)

by Natalie Baird

  “Listen,” I said severely, “I don’t like it when people waste my time. If you called me here just to score a bit of ass, you’re talking to the wrong woman. If you have an actual proposition, a business proposition, then I’d love to hear it.”

  “What’s the hurry?” Jackson drawled, flagging down the bartender, “I told you already that I didn’t ask you here based on your looks. You certainly didn’t come because of mine. So why don’t we have a drink, get to know each other, and then we can get down to business, OK? OK.” Before I could protest, Jackson turned his smile on the bartender and said, “Two whiskey sours. Make mine a double.”

  “I’m fine,” I said quickly.

  “I insist,” Jackson said, grinning at me. That damn smile was like kryptonite. As annoyed as I was with Jackson’s disregard for professional standards, I couldn’t deny that he was drawing me in with every moment that passed. I let my mind wander as I thought about what he might look like with his shirt off. What would the smooth panes of his chest, his sculpted biceps, feel like under my fingers? How did he kiss a woman with those delicious, firm lips of his? I felt a low, throbbing ache start to make itself known between my legs. The sensation was completely new to me. How was he having this maddening effect on me from a foot away? I was at once angry with myself for being swept away by his charm, and also secretly curious. What was stopping me from going with the moment, letting this little episode play out as it wanted to?

  No, I said to myself, as the bartender placed our drinks before us. He’s not worth it. He’s not good enough. Remember that you’re better than this.

  “Cheers,” Jackson said, raising his glass, “To new friends.”

  “We’re friends, now?” I said, clinking my glass against his and taking a tiny sip. I usually stuck with wine, but the strong taste of the cocktail managed to hit the spot at that moment.

  “I think so,” Jackson said, taking a long swallow of his drink. I watched the muscles in his neck and shoulders dance as he drank down the whiskey. Goose bumps sprung up on the skin of my legs and arms. I prayed that he couldn’t spot them in the darkness of the bar.

  “So,” I said, swallowing my quickly-heating lust, “You’re a rock star.”

  “Yes,” he answered, “Very astute of you.”

  “And you wanted to have a drink with me,” I went on, ignoring his jibe.

  “I did,” he said, “I’m a fan of yours.”

  “A fan?” I laughed, “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve read your work,” Jackson said, laying his hand against the small of my back. My spine thrilled at his touch, and my back arched against my will. I was like putty in this man’s hands, and I didn’t like it one bit. I shrugged off his hand and raised an eyebrow at him.

  “What work have you read?” I asked. I didn't believe him, but a piece of me hoped he was telling the truth.

  “All your reviews on The Beat,” he answered sincerely, “And some of your earlier work. That blog with the clever name...”

  “LexiCon?” I asked, amazed.

  “That’s the one!” he said, “Does that mean I can call you Lexi?”

  “Only if you want whiskey in your eyes,” I responded, levelling my drink in warning.

  “Hold your fire,” he said, holding up his big, strong hands in front of his face. “That was a great blog you had going. I’m glad you’re onto bigger and better things, I just wish you got to cover more in-depth stories.”

  “Me too,” I admitted. It had been a while since I’d gotten a story that really challenged me as a writer. Sure, I like writing reviews well enough, but I wanted something that was really going to put me on the map.

  “Would you be interested in taking on something with a bit more...depth?” he asked, taking another long swallow of his drink.

  “Absolutely,” I said, mesmerized by the drop of booze that clung to his lip. The sudden image of me, licking it off, sprung into my mind. At that moment, I was grateful for the dim lighting—I needed it to hide my blush.

  “I’m very happy to hear that,” Jackson said, turning his body toward mine and laying a hand on my knee. It took every ounce of strength in my body to knock it away—all that I wanted was to feel his warm hand on my bare skin, but this familiarity was unacceptable.

  I shot him a quick look and cocked my eyebrow, clearly unimpressed.

  He smiled back at me with a self-satisfied grin. His blue eyes were glimmering unfairly back at me.

  “Why’s that?” I asked brusquely, trying to keep the lusty thickness from my voice.

  “I’m going on a European tour, Jackson said, looking at me intently. “We leave for London in a week. We’re going to hit all the major cities, and all the minor gems too. It’ll be a grand, sweeping adventure and a hell of a good time. I want a journalist to come along for the trip and write a story about who I actually am, how I actually live. This grungy, unwashed persona is dragging me down. I think, for the sake of my popularity, that the world needs to know what’s underneath the handsome face and bulging muscles.”

  “Modesty, I’m sure,” I rolled my eyes.

  “Funny,” he said. “I want a full story about me, written by someone that I like and trust. I looked all over for someone like that, but couldn’t come up with anyone. Then I found you, read your early work, the stuff you wrote before the mainstream media sapped you of any style.”

  That comment stung my pride, and it angered me that I actually cared what this guy thought.

  “Hey!” I protested, “I have plenty of style!”

  “Yes,” Jackson said, “Your headband really demonstrates that.”

  I scowled at him. “A headband is a perfectly acceptable accessory.”

  “For an eighteen-year-old coed, sure,” Jackson said, leaning in toward me. I could smell the lovely, crisp scent of him, and it was intoxicating. “But I want to make you a star music journalist. The person that everyone turns to for real, gripping stories. I want you to come along on my tour and get to know me, intimately.”

  That last word seared through every corner of my body as I stared at Jackson, wide-eyed. This entire meeting had become entirely surreal. Could he really be asking me, of all people, to take on this massive assignment? I’d never written anything more substantial than a couple of blogs and a calendar of tour dates—at least to the public’s knowledge.

  “Why me?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?” Jackson said. “It has to be you.”

  “That’s what you said,” I replied, “But why does it have to be me? What makes me so special?”

  “Where’s your confidence, Alexa?” Jackson crowed, “You’re a wonderful writer! Or you could be if given material that was actually interesting. Not that what you’re writing now is poorly done, it simply doesn’t give you any room to breathe, to express yourself. I want you to come and write a story about me because I can tell that you have potential. You see things that nobody else does, and the things you see are vital, and important. I think that you could really get at the truth of me, if given the right amount of exposure. And that’s what I want. A true, honest portrait of me as a man and an artist.”

  “What if you don’t like the things I see about you?” I asked. “What if I think that you’re a misogynistic narcissist with a tin ear?”

  Jackson smiled wide and looked back at me with curiosity. He seemed to be impressed with my snarky comeback, it was clear that he wasn't used to women speaking to him this way.

  “As long as it’s honest,” Jackson said, “Whatever you write will be fine with me.”

  “I didn’t say I was going to write it,” I corrected him quickly. “This entire thing is completely out of line. You bring me down to this sketchy bar, try to get me liquored up—”

  “I bought you one drink!” Jackson shot back, “Are you that uptight that you can’t accept—”

  “And now,” I pressed on, feeling bold from the brown liquor, “You’re offering me this brilliant opportunity that just happens to inclu
de travelling around Europe in your tour bus, where I’ll be at your disposal night and day. You’re basically suggesting that I allow you to abduct me and drag me around Europe in whatever sex dungeon, harem-type thing on wheels you’ve got going on. There will be nothing but drugs, and booze, and sex—”

  “Is that such a terrible thing?” he asked craftily. “It seems to me you could use a little bit more of all three, my dear.”

  “Don’t presume to know anything about the way I live my life,” I snapped, though in truth he wasn’t far off. I wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but I hadn’t had sex in about six months by that point. After a rather unfortunate short-term relationship with a computer programmer had ended, I’d taken a little hiatus from guys. But that didn’t mean that I was suddenly so undersexed that I would leap at this ridiculous European adventure, much less succumb to the charms of someone named Jackson Brent. He was a snake, I could tell. My body was just confused by his amazing physique, and fabulous features, and adorable accent. I knew he was bad for me, I didn’t actually want him. My body just thought that I did. At least, that’s what I told myself.

  “What are you so afraid of?” Jackson asked me. “Listen to me for a second, now. I’m not trying to trick you. I am an honest-to-god fan of your writing, and I think that you have an amazing talent. I want you to write my story because I think you’ll do it right. And I want you to come with me on tour so that you’ll have everything you need to write the most amazing expose that’s ever been penned. I’m not expecting anything from you besides your professional best. If you want a separate bus with a “no booze” sign on the door, that’s fine. Whatever you like. I’m asking you to let me make you famous. If you write this story, every music magazine in the world will be knocking down your door, you know it’s true. Please. Come with me.”

  I stared at Jackson, searching his eyes for any hint that he wasn't telling the truth. Was it possible I’d misjudged him, or is that just what I wanted to believe? I sighed lightly and looked him in the eye, completely at a loss.

  “I need to think about this,” I said, stepping off my bar stool. “I’ll talk to my boss tomorrow and see what he thinks.”

  “He’ll think it’s a great idea,” Jackson smiled.

  “We’ll see,” I said, “I’ll get back to you with my answer.”

  Jackson whipped a business card out of his pants pocket and handed it to me. “Don’t keep me waiting long,” he said, “I won’t be able to stand the anticipation."

  That makes two of us, I thought. But I nodded curtly and brushed past him toward the door. As I retreated, I could feel his hot gaze lingering on my body. It was all I could to do stay upright on my wobbly knees and point myself toward home.

  Chapter Two

  “What do you mean I should go with him?!” I all but screeched at Kellan the next morning.

  My boss cocked an eyebrow at me, befuddled by my reaction. “Alexa,” he said, “Why in the world wouldn’t you take this opportunity? This could be huge for you!”

  “I’ll tell you why,” I said, leaning over Kellan’s desk menacingly, “Because Jackson Brent is a womanizing dog. A rutting pig. Everybody says so.”

  “Everybody also says that he’s a dirty slob who hasn’t showered since 1990,” Kellan said, “But from what you told me, that seems to be misinformation as well.”

  “Kellan, I’m telling you, he’s bad news,” I said. I paced up and down the length of Kellan’s tiny office, my mind reeling. “He said that he got in touch with me because of my writing, but I think we both know what the truth is.”

  “I don’t,” Kellan said, “Why don’t you enlighten me?”

  “I mean...” I spluttered, gesturing to my hourglass figure, “Do you really need to make me say it?”

  “Yes,” Kellan said, “Because I want you to hear how stupid it sounds.”

  “I...He...” I wasn’t exactly going for articulate that day.

  “Let me lay it out for you,” Kellan said, leaning his elbows on the desk. “You think that Jackson Brent, one of the most famous rock stars in the world, and quite possibly the sexiest man on the planet, needs to go fishing for tail?”

  “That’s not—” I protested.

  “Let me finish,” Kellan said, holding up his hand. “Are you so insecure about your own writing that you are unable to believe that someone might want to hire you based on your talent, rather than your tits?”

  “Ew,” I shuddered, “Don’t say tits. It’s weird.”

  “Alexa, you’re an incredible writer,” Kellan urged. “Why do you think I took a chance on you when we were starting this operation? Because you were cute? No. Give me a little credit. I took you on because you’re damned good at what you do. I wanted to snatch you up before anyone else did. Now, if I’m right, Jackson Brent is feeling the same way. He wants an expose, he wants the world to see beyond the rock star act. And he wants you to be the one to tell that story.”

  “He kept talking about being...” I swallowed, “Intimate.”

  “Don’t twist his words,” Kellan said, dismissing my concern, “God, Alexa. Is your mind permanently stuck in the gutter?”

  I let my thoughts flick momentarily to a new fantasy about Jackson, naked in the shower. “Yes,” I responded, “Yes, I fear it might be.”

  “I think you should do it,” Kellan said for the hundredth time, “I think it would be a fantastic opportunity. Have you ever even been to Europe?”

  “No,” I admitted sheepishly. My world travels were confined to the tri-state area.

  “So what’s holding you back?” my boss pressed. “Are you just scared?”

  “Yes,” I said, though it wasn’t the assignment that I feared.

  What scared me was the way my thoughts lingered on Jackson long after we had said goodnight for the evening. Looking back at the night before, our entire encounter seemed like some kind of hot, surreal dream. It had been hard enough to believe that I was being summoned by rock royalty from the start, but after that proposition? It was hard to make sense of it.

  And more confusing still was the effect Jackson had on me as we sat at the bar together. Something about him woke my body up as if from a deep sleep. I’d never experienced attraction like that before in my life. I’d thought that guys were cute, sure, even hot. But Jackson was on another level entirely. Those perfectly sculpted muscles, collected in a balanced, graceful shape that was still super masculine for its beauty...the way his sharp jaw cast shadows on his neck...those lips that looked as though they knew their way around a woman’s body...it was all too much. He was too perfect.

  That was what I was afraid of, in the end. I was afraid that the whole thing, Jackson, the job, the tour, everything, was too good to be true. As a writer, I was trained to handle rejection pretty well. The way that I kept my wits about me in the competitive world of journalism was to keep my expectations low. If something wonderful should happen, great! But hoping for a long shot, or worse yet, counting on one, was a terrible decision. Something terrible might happen if I bought into Jackson’s promises.

  Unless something wonderful happened...What if I was totally mistaken? After all, amazing things happen to people every day. People fall in love, get pulled out of burning buildings, land on the moon; what if my own personal miracle was unfolding right in front of my face? What if this was my chance to make my career, and I was casting it aside because I couldn’t handle the subtle lustiness of some rock star? I was stronger than that. There was no way that anyone, even Jackson Brent, could seduce me without my own consent.

  I sighed and looked back into Kellan’s expectant eyes. A slow smile spread across my face as I threw my hands into the air. “Fine,” I said, “Fine, I’ll do it. I’ll go on this crazy adventure and write you the most scandalous tell-all that ever was.”

  Before I’d finished my final sentence, Kellan scooped me up into his arms and began twirling me around the room. He was excited that I was about to score a huge story, and tons of publicity, for his magaz
ine. And I was just glad that he would finally get off my back about it.

  “OK, that’s enough!” I said, wiggling out of Kellan’s exuberant embrace.

  “This is huge,” Kellan said, grinning from ear to ear. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had started tap dancing right then and there. “The Beat is going to blow up once you write this story! My kids can go to college! I can finally sleep at night! I can retire someday!”

  “No pressure, though,” I mumbled.

  “Alexa,” Kellan said, planting his hands on my shoulders, “I have full confidence in you. But if you mess it up...Just, don’t mess it up, OK?”

  “You got it, boss,” I said, snatching up my purse. “I’ll leave you to bask in your vicarious glory but you should know that this will cost you coffee every morning until the end of time. By the way, if I’m in Europe, who’s going to do my job?”

  “Oh...some intern, I guess,” Kellan said, waving my question away.

  “Glad to see I’m so vital to the operation!” I chirped, and turned on my heel to go.

  I decided to skip the subway and take the long way home. Usually, I opted for the subway from midtown to my home in Gramercy, but the early evening air was too nice not to enjoy. Every year, New York enjoys a month or so of beautiful spring weather. The mornings are crisp, the afternoons warm and breezy, and the evenings are absolutely divine. In a flash, this honeymoon is over, and the overbearing summer sweeps through the city like wildfire. The summers and winters in New York are dreadful, but the little slice of Spring that comes in the middle makes the rest of the year worth it.

  This was one of those perfect nights, and I took my time walking East along 34th Street. The high rises and billboards gave way to brownstones and corner bodegas as I got further away from the bustle of midtown. I liked my place of work just fine, but I preferred the quieter corners of New York City. The East River Park, the Cloisters, the Metropolitan Museum of Art on a sleepy morning; those were my favorite places. Time Square was fine and good, but a bit too busy for me.