by Amber Lin
One Kiss with a Rock Star
Half-Life bassist Krist Mellas is caught in a PR nightmare after his dirty sex video blew up online. His agent has the solution: a fake engagement with sultry pop princess Madeline Fox. Krist can’t think of anything worse than a charade with the bubblegum bombshell…except losing the band.
Madeline knows better than anyone what it means to live a lie in the spotlight. She’s determined to help Krist without ever letting him find out what it costs her—or about her girlhood crush on him. But after a smoking hot back alley encounter with him leaves her breathless, she can’t deny she wants the snarling bad-boy rocker.
In a world of glitter and diamonds where the kisses are fake but the climaxes are real, their facades start to crack. And the publicity storm may shatter them both.
WARNING: This book contains a scorching threesome, a dirty talking pop princess, and a surly rocker who hits all the right notes.
Praise for Three Nights with a Rock Star
“Smoking hot and intensely emotional.”
–Amy Jo Cousins, author of Calling His Bluff
“This book will ROCK YOUR SOCKS RIGHT OFF!”
–Red’s Hot Reads
“I loved every minute of it! From the sexy lead singer Lock, to the cute mousy Hailey. I’m more than looking forward to the next book One Kiss with a Rock Star.”
–Books Unhinged
“The chemistry between Lock and Hailey is blistering. Sparks flew the first time they saw each other.”
–Cocktails and Books
“A great read with some unexpected turns that were hot! Amber Lin and Shari Slade were an amazing match in writing this book together.”
–Summer’s Book Blog
“Three Nights with a Rock Star has the love story, the push you up against a door sex, and the holy hell I can’t believe they’re doing that ménage sex, but it also has the sweetness of family and the heartbreak of possible betrayals, broken friendships, and leaked sex tapes. I cannot wait to read Krist’s story, One Kiss with a Rock Star!”
–Hines and Bingam’s Literary Tryst
“It was a fast-paced‚ tender‚ sweet and hot read.”
–Rumpled Sheets Blog
“I cannot reiterate how much I enjoyed this book. If you love Rockstar romance, you will love this.”
–Perusing Princesses
“Well played, Amber Lin and Shari Slade!”
–Twin Sisters Rockin’ Book Reviews
Table of Contents
Title Page
About the Book
Praise for Three Nights with a Rock Star
Epigraph
Prologue
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
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
Thank You
Excerpt from Three Nights with a Rock Star
Want a backstage pass?
Playlist
Also by Amber Lin
Excerpt from Giving It Up
Also by Shari Slade
Excerpt from The Opposite of Nothing
Other books by Amber Lin
Other books by Shari Slade
About the Authors
Acknowledgements
Copyright
I am hiding this infinity.
I am wearing all my marks.
Yours to take. Yours to break.
We are endless.
Broken, Half-Life
Prologue
If happiness wasn’t a vintage ’62 Fender J-bass with a three-color sunburst, rosewood fingerboard, and mother-of-pearl pick guard, Krist probably couldn’t survive actual happiness. Finding his personal holy grail on the wall of a dive guitar shop in Chicago seemed like a sign from the gods of rock and roll that he was meant to have it.
He curved his fingers around the neck and closed his eyes. “John Paul Jones played one of these forever. I think he still does.”
“Yeah, man. Zeppelin, right?”
Krist winced at the uncertainty in the guy’s voice. He obviously wasn’t an authority on the greatest bass players of all time. He probably knew Flea and maybe Lemmy, but Krist doubted he’d last long in a round of Who’s Who trivia. In any random music shop, that wouldn’t matter. But not in this shop, with this bass. It seemed almost sinful for the Jazz to languish here where it wasn’t fully appreciated. A beautiful jewel surrounded by musty secondhands and reissues.
The guy behind the counter fidgeted as Krist ran his fingers over the body curves looking for wear and tear. “She’s barely been played. Somebody didn’t love her enough, or they loved her too much, kept her in a box. It’s a damn shame. How much?”
“Umm…it’s kind of our store mascot, Mr. Mellas. I, umm, I’d have to check with the owner.”
Krist looked up from the beauty in his hands and studied the guy’s name tag. “Brody? I want this bass. I want to play this bass onstage. I want to tell everyone where I found this bass.”
Brody gulped. “Yeah, right. Of course. That’s so fucking cool. I mean. I’ll just go get him. He’s in the back.”
Krist smiled and strummed out the bass line for “Beast” on the unplugged instrument. Even without an amp, he could feel it. Brody could too, because he tripped over himself behind the counter to get back to his boss. A stack of music lesson fliers scattered to the ground in his wake.
Brody didn’t shut the door to the back room behind him, and their voices filtered out.
“Dude, Krist fucking Mellas is on the sales floor playing the Jazz. He wants to buy it from us.”
“Really? Holy shit. I don’t even know what it’s worth right now. The appraisal is ten years old.” The voice sounded older than Brody but not by much. Krist heard the slide of a metal drawer and a crash as it slammed shut. He kept stroking the strings, learning their subtle vibrations. Each instrument had its own voice, and Krist would learn this one. He would make it sing.
“Look it up, man. This is legendary.”
When Brody returned, Krist pretended he hadn’t heard their exchange. “So?”
“Lyle is just going to double-check the price, but I’m sure we can work something out.”
Brody may not know his shit, but if the appraisal was that old, Lyle had to be hanging on to the Jazz for sentimental reasons. It had to be worth fifteen grand at least. That would buy an awful lot of stock. Selling it to a collector on eBay would’ve gone a long way to rejuvenating the tired shop. “How’d you end up with your mascot?”
“Lyle inherited it, along with the business. I think his granddad was the original owner.”
That explained some of the store’s frayed edges, the general air of benign neglect. Maybe Lyle had fallen into the family business by default instead of passion. All the more reason to sell the Jazz to Krist. He’d actually use it and give publicity to the shop at the same time.
Krist settled into one of two dusty recliners set up in the middle of the sales floor with the Jazz nestled under his arm. His Jazz, because in his heart it was already his. It’d been his before he walked through the door. It was just waiting for him to arrive.
He’d play this bass for the Rolling Stone interview. He’d been tapped for a “Top Ten Bassists Today” spread. They’d feature him alongside some of his heroes a
nd some of his peers. Krist fought back a smug grin. Screw all those fuckers who thought he’d only made it because of who his parents were, who Lock’s parents were. Connections couldn’t buy this kind of recognition. And now he’d have a ’62 Fender for the photo. He’d have it for the gig they played in Vegas next week.
Everything was falling into place. Finally.
“Brody, get back here.”
Krist turned to watch Brody bolt to the back room. Krist wondered if he’d lost the appraisal. That would suck, but they could look it up online and Krist would offer well over whatever number they found. He could afford it. The Jazz was worth it. His career was worth it.
The music was worth it.
“That’s him, right?” Lyle.
“Holy shit. Yeah. It is. Look at the tattoos.” Brody.
Their voices lowered, almost conspiratorial now. What the fuck were they looking at? Did they think he’d lied about who he was? Were they checking the latest and greatest from the tabloids? He could’ve just shown them his ID.
He stood and walked to the counter, prepared to prove himself. His black AMEX should do the trick. He’d normally rather stay anonymous, but not here. Not in a music store. These were his people—even if they didn’t know John Paul Jones.
“Do you think he knows?” Lyle again.
Knows what?
This was getting ridiculous. They were about to conduct a transaction with many zeroes; the least they could do was speak to him. Krist reached around to unlatch the gate and let himself behind the counter.
“Look, guys, I’m prepared to buy right now. Let’s do this.” He stuck his head in the back room.
Lyle and Brody had their backs to him, both of them studying something on an enormous computer screen. Lyle must spend his days in this dank little room gaming it up, judging by his oversize headset and collection of energy-drink bottles.
The guys turned, both of their faces twisted into twin looks of disbelief bordering on horror. What the hell? Had he caught them jerking off? That was the only way to explain the guilty flushes on their faces.
Lyle slammed his hand down on the keyboard, and a gray image on the screen jumped to life. “Shit. Shit. I—”
Brody stammered some kind of denial. “We weren’t looking. We didn’t see.”
Krist took a step closer. “Didn’t see what?”
No answer from the boys, but the wide-screen showed him anyway. Surveillance footage, but not of the store. An elevator. And…
Shit. Lyle had been right about that. Shit.
In grainy black-and-white, his bandmate Lock leaned against the back of an elevator. And there was Hailey, topless.
And the third person in the photo was…Krist. That was him, his tattoos plain as day, on his fucking knees. Sucking Lock’s cock. Someone had released a sex tape of their threesome. Do you think he knows? No, he hadn’t known, and of all the ways to find out, hovering in the back room of a music store was not his first choice. Actually he’d rather never know, rather live in blissful cluelessness—but that wouldn’t be possible. Already their agent, their PR crew, and the label execs would be gathering in the war room to deal with this.
His stomach dropped, and his vision went red at the edges. This was bad. This was really fucking bad. He couldn’t even process how bad it was. Lock must be on a rampage. And poor Hailey.
His muscles felt tight, as if they were pushing through his skin. He couldn’t quite breathe, but he managed to force out a question. A very important question. “Where did you find that?”
Brody cleared his throat. “It’s all over the Internet. Is that…is that really you?”
What a stupid question. Of course it was him, but Krist could tell by the expectant look on his face that he wanted a denial. Needed a denial. Rockers didn’t suck other rocker’s dicks. That was the golden rule, and Krist had broken it.
He could have blown up at a fan.
He could have forgotten the fucking song onstage.
He could have fucked an underage girl, even. Oops. Didn’t know. It happened all the fucking time, and there was barely a blip. Krist’s stomach turned. Record sales actually went up. But God forbid he be bisexual with consenting adults—yeah, that was too fucking far.
Krist took a breath and eased his grip on the Jazz. “Too bad the security camera didn’t catch my good side.”
Lyle switched off the screen, and the already dim room darkened further. “Mr. Mellas, I’m sorry to have wasted your time. I’m not in a position to sell that bass right now.”
Chapter One
Six months later
“So, Ms. Fox will be suspended from the rafters up there. We’ll lower her down. Spinning. Spinning. You with me so far?” The producer pointed as he talked, waving a clipboard and checking his watch.
Krist nodded. This wasn’t his first video shoot, though a set for a Half-Life production was more smoke machines and back alleys than Cirque du Soleil knockoff. Or grainy security footage of him sucking cock in an elevator.
Christ, he’d wanted to kick Lock’s ass for putting him in this position. First on his knees in the elevator and then on his knees begging for a favor.
When Lock had needed the media to lay off his girlfriend, Krist offered to help. He texted Madeline, the pop princess with a good-girl-goes-bad reputation, and she’d come through with a wild PR stunt at the Washington monument that took the heat off Hailey.
But not Krist. Nothing could do that. A rocker caught sucking cock? The press swarmed him like a pack of hungry jackals. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, without someone asking a question about the tape. About their relationships. About anything but the music.
“When she hits that mark, you grab her—watch the wings—kiss her, and push her back.” Producer pantomimed a dramatic shove.
This video shoot was just one more thing that wasn’t music. Krist wouldn’t be contributing anything to the shoot except his edgy reputation. That was all he was now—an image. A prop to appear in a music video, in a sex tape, in a threesome.
But he loved Lock. Still loved him, even though the love had changed now. He’d do anything for Lock, including turning himself into a little grunge Ken doll so Lock could have a happy ending with somebody else.
“In the stage show it’s just a backup dancer dressed like a demon,” the producer said, “but for the video we wanted something more literal. Remember, she’s too sweet for you, too good; it hurts to touch her. But you want her. That’s your motivation.”
Well, this was painful, all right. And he was the literal devil, in leather and chains, to a pop-princess angel. No respect for the music, the craft. She probably couldn’t even really sing.
Fucking Auto-Tune.
The label ate that shit up, sucked its bones and tossed them on the altar of mass consumption. They were constantly pushing those bubble-gum sounds on his band—audio processors instead of four well-tuned strings, costume drama instead of playing the fucking music.
Krist balled his fists and forced himself to swallow the bile building at the back of his throat. He might be a dissolute rock star, available for hire…but he was a goddamn professional. “Got it,” he growled.
“Oh, good. You’re already getting into character. We have”—Producer checked his watch again—“five minutes before they harness her up. Do you want to meet with her first?”
He didn’t want to meet with her at all. He was already choking on her rarefied air. From the bowl of pink M&M’s in the greenroom to the we-drank-the-Kool-Aid crew hovering in her orbit. Had they all signed purity pledges too?
He snorted, remembering the first—and only—time he’d met Madeline Fox before. Their encounter in the bathroom of the VMAs had been all to brief. One kiss—fast and crazy—that hit him like a runaway train and left him reeling. She’d been too pure that night too, but also smoking hot, and he’d been grateful for the burn. They’d exchanged cell numbers… but he hadn’t called her.
Yeah, he was that guy.
&n
bsp; It wasn’t because he didn’t like her. It was because he liked her too much when he had no business doing so. Liked her body and her sighs and her moans too much—but not her music. He hadn’t called her until he’d needed a favor.
He shook his head. “Let’s keep the misery—I mean mystery—alive.”
*
There was a moment, after the makeup artist and hair stylist had gone, before the choreographer and director had arrived, that Madeline was alone. The silence disoriented her, making her pulse heavy.
It was like stepping off a carousel, unsteady on her feet and squinting into the sun. Though in her case, she was unsteady on four-inch heels and blinking at fashion lights lining the wall. Her short puffs of breath expanded to fill the empty dressing room. Every piece of clothing that had been specially crafted and fitted to her body suddenly tugged and scratched and pinched.
The door slammed open—no knock—and her choreographer stood there. Just like that, the off-kilter moment was over, banished to the Island of Misfit Memories. She was Madeline Fox again, back in her groove. Adequate singer. Dazzling performer. She was a goddamn pop princess—and princesses never had to be alone.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Jimmy said in his customary affected voice. “You look fabulous.”
Doing a little circle to show off her costume, she preened. Literally preened since she had feathers glued onto her arms. “Are you sure I don’t look a little…avian?”
“Please. No one will be looking at your arms in that glitter bra. Every boy in the audience will have a hard-on the size of Texas.”
Madeline rolled her eyes. Jimmy had been saying that to her since she was fifteen. He got away with it because he pretended to be gay. A requirement for being successful in this business, or so he’d told her in a rare moment of seriousness.
“Come on, sweetie. Your devil awaits you.”
She clapped her hands together, barely holding in her squee. She hadn’t been sure Krist would come. Even though he owed her. Even though she’d sent their mutual agent to ensure that extra push. “Ward came through for me?”
