by Cari Quinn
And now I was a rockstar too, on my way up. Soaring so high no one could rip me back down to earth.
Finally, I had it all…and then there was Zoe. Sweet, trusting Zoe, who was so much stronger than she looked.
The only woman who could bring me to my knees.
I would do anything to protect her. To keep her mine. And to protect my new family, the one I was sure I never wanted.
They didn’t understand how far I’d go to get the pot of gold. And then it was too late. There was no going back.
No keeping them safe.
I’d made promises to the devil, and the devil always got his due.
One way or another.
Meet Ian Kagan, our new rockstar anti-hero in the introduction to our super hot, romantic suspense trilogy, Rock Revenge. The trilogy occurs in the Oblivion world though it can be read on its own. Rock Revenge 1 is a 38K novella with a cliffhanger. The story continues in Rock Reclaimed 2 and concludes with a HEA in Rock Redemption 3.
One-click ROCK RECLAIMED now.
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Reclaim
Where the sky begins, the horizon ends
Despite the best intentions.
Tom Petty
One
The cacophony of screams, conversation, and the low hum of a microphone too close to an amplifier threatened my steady hand. That and the six-foot-four drunk guy next to me. I was a second away from climbing on him and giving him a head-butt. I was wiry. I could probably do it with a minimum of fuss.
No one would even notice.
Probably.
The head-butt was a personal protection tip from the “house mom” of my complex that came in handy a little more than I liked to own up to. Having three strapping older brothers who loved to fill my brain with worst case scenarios hadn’t hurt either. I lived in Venice Beach and spent most of my time there and around The Strip. Ways to keep safe littered my brain like ticket stubs on a club floor after a concert. Tons of info stomped on by life, mixed with shitty beer.
Didn’t matter how big a dude was, hit him in the knee or give him a good crack to the head and he’d go down. I’d tried it out a few times. So far I was two for three as far as positive results went. Tonight, it was damn tempting to try again.
But I wasn’t in the mood for a migraine, so he was safe.
And as usual, the setting made me forget about gigantor next to me. I craned my neck around. My focus was Ripper Records’ new darling. The other acts were a bonus just to get my cousin, Lila Crandall, off my back. I knew she was trying to be helpful. Any other artist would be thrilled to get called in for a job.
Me?
Not so much. I was maybe a step up from a starving artist. Okay, half step, but I wasn’t legit starving. Being in the art program at J Town meant I had a roof over my head. Add in the fact that it offered me a workable studio as well, and I was in heaven.
Besides, the only reason I’d said yes to Lila, the she-dragon of Ripper Records herself, was because of the venue. This old place was full of interesting bits. I was hoping I could get a few ideas that would work for the ever-changing collection I’d need to put together to keep up my end of the deal to remain a resident at J Town.
I took out my phone to get a few digital pictures of an ancient mural on one wall. It had been painted, repainted, and half-painted over again, leaving an odd two-faced situation.
I itched to find the owner and demand for him—or her, but come on, let’s be real, a woman wouldn’t let that stand—to let me finish the work. Rework it so both the new and old worked in harmony with an added side of discord, instead of the full-on crazy it had going on right now.
No time to get distracted, Zoe.
I returned my focus to the stage. Until the new dude came out, I really wanted to capture the lonely microphone stand in the center of the space. Peeling duct tape kept one of the three feet from coming off. Solder burns had bubbled and busted open in three separate sections. The art was the fact it was still here and not in some dumpster. The stand was battered, and a perfect symbol of rock and roll surrounded by the rest of the glossy, high-end equipment scattered across the stage.
Arrested Upgrade—perfect title for the piece.
Now, I just needed a better angle to get it all in frame.
However, the problem with my favorite camera was a lack of zoom. The gritty and surprising effects of Polaroid-style film made up for it. Sometimes the picture was perfection, sometimes it was pure shit, but it was always interesting.
And that was why I had to get the photo before the next opening act came out and ruined the composition I was fairly obsessed with.
I’d have to be the one to zoom, dammit.
I ducked under gigantor’s arm and pushed my way to the far left of the general-admission pit. It was late and the natives were restless. No one gave two craps about the first girl who had performed. I couldn’t even remember her name.
Poor thing.
She’d been pretty good, but the Blue Rhino definitely wasn’t her crowd. I was fairly sure the girl had burst into tears the moment she’d walked off the stage. Personally, I wasn’t sure why Li’s boss, Donovan Lewis, lead shark at Ripper, had gone for either of the openers tonight. The Zeps were unapologetic rock. The old school kind with a hard lean into classic. Heck, I even had a few of their songs on my work playlist.
They didn’t need openers. It didn’t make sense. Especially a pop-like aesthetic like the girl had been. And the other dude was an unknown. British or something was the only clue I’d gotten from listening to people around me.
The house music lowered from its ear-splitting decibel. “Shit.” I boosted myself over the barricade. I had a few more minutes—probably more like seconds—before the next guy came out.
“Get down off there.”
I flipped over the card on my lanyard. If I had to do this damn job, at least I had an all-access pass.
The burly bearded guy grunted then backed off. I swung my leg over the second metal barrier with a hiss. What I wouldn’t give for long legs some days. Then again, I could crawl into pretty tiny spaces when I wanted to. And I’d need to for this picture. I shot up the rickety stairs to the side stage, then crouched and took my shot just as the house lights went out.
“Dammit.” The pop and wind of film followed by the quick jerk as the photo released sealed its fate. I shoved it into the pocket of my large hobo bag with the rest of the Polaroid-style pictures to wait for it to develop.
A frisson of electricity climbed up my spine, and I would’ve sworn it shot up my neck to buzz under my slouchy hat. I had no choice but to look up. I didn’t even realize I was taking pictures until two of them dropped onto my shoe. The lights around me flared and a purple spotlight swirled around a lean, endless pair of legs in jet-black material. Silver glitter pinstripes shimmered in the low light, drawing my eye up to the impressively muscular thighs and…
Well, then. Impressive line of his trousers. Sparkly trousers, no less. They were paired with a semi-matching boxy jacket. Actually, not matching at all. The blacks were different. No one else probably noticed, but color was my world. And the pants were onyx black while the jacket was decidedly warmer. His silky white shirt was half open. Something metal flashed against his skin. I popped off a few more pictures.
Two.
Three.
Four.
All stuffed into my bag in an endless repetition.
Little pieces of the whole.
Maybe I’d tack them together on a black canvas with smudged c
halk.
I’d name it Neil Diamond.
He swung his guitar around his back and tipped the mic stand down with him as he tried valiantly to get the crowd to pay attention to him. I smirked as I took one more shot of the purple guitar strap that slashed across his back. Heck, I didn’t even hear the song he was singing.
It was moody, that was about all I could comprehend.
My entire world had become this dude, and I had to get each angle. The microphone stand was forgotten in the ambient purple and glitter smorgasbord. I swallowed a giggle—or maybe it was a moan; no one could hear me, I was pretty sure—as I took one last shot of the bulge he was sporting. Trick of the light?
Maybe.
The light flicked from soft purple to blinding white and I squinted against the change.
The room was silent save for the stomp of the singer’s foot. I dropped into a crouch. I didn’t even remember standing to take those pictures.
The camera kicked at me, demanding film.
“Fuck, fuck.” I dug into the bottom of my bag. No cartridges. I couldn’t have used them all up. “No, no.”
I was afraid to look away. Afraid the magic would be gone. Glitz and glamour hugged the man from ankle to neck. Even his hair was a riot of curls and artifice. They coiled around his ears and down to his shoulders to flip up at the ends. Soft, where the rest of him was glam.
Except for his shoes.
Ancient. Battered.
Dear God, the perfection of it. I had to have it.
When he stomped once more, the sole of his shoe flapped. Duct tape peeled away. Oh, he’d hidden it well enough with…was that marker? Sharpie, perhaps?
I shoved my newer camera into my bag and unearthed my ancient Polaroid. It was clunkier and the button stuck. It was persnickety. That was why Matilda was my favorite—and yeah, I named my cameras.
My finger shook a little. I took a long, slow breath to even out my jangling nerves.
The undeniable hatched gray tape was coming apart at the edge of his boot.
And still he stomped.
The dichotomy made my spine zing. I recognized the feeling. I’d followed it down more than a few rabbit holes since I’d left my sleepy little town of Turnbull, NY. Every time resulted in magic. The first time had turned into a sculpture that had been the centerpiece of my first amateur show when I was a teen. The last time had become a mural in a theater downtown.
This would be a painting.
A wall-sized canvas that would show every detail.
The boos from the crowd finally dented my tunnel vision. Still, the singer stomped and sang his song. He closed his eyes and sang louder. It was as if he’d left the freaking building in his mind. He was locked in and determined.
I’d brought a shit ton of cartridges. I dug around inside my bag. “Where the fuck are you?”
The lights went from stark to a hazy green as he swung his guitar around his back and yanked the cover off the piano on the side of the stage.
Not his instrument. Well, that took balls.
He unhooked his microphone and snapped the cord to get some length so he could move to the piano. He snapped it into the stand set up for the Zeps and sat down. “Think they’ll mind?”
The crowd roared their anger.
His voice was far deeper than I’d been expecting. And something else. Accent? Right, he was British. At least I was pretty sure. But that voice…especially compared to the crazy range of his vocals? Yeah, that was delicious.
I shook off the distraction and dug for more film, finally finding a pile of cartridges that had slid between the lining thanks to a tear in my bag. Thank fuck. I still had the Zeps to photograph.
He lowered the mic to kiss his mouth and started the song without accompaniment. The change in the crowd was slow. Growls of malcontent faded to murmurs as the effortless power of his voice and the alternately gentle caresses of his long fingers on the keys took over.
The song was low and powerful, then slowly built as he climbed from a soothing tone to a pounding beat and his voice grew with each note.
Phenomenal.
Electric.
Fuck, he was gorgeous, and he had turned the crowd from bitching to cheering in the space of two minutes. I didn’t think it was possible.
I moved out onto the stage for a better angle.
Pop.
Hiss.
Another photo disappeared into my bag. I’d have to remember about the rip inside. I didn’t want to lose any of these. They all would have to be reviewed for transfer to canvas. I crouched down low and my heart thundered when I realized there was carpeting under my sneaker.
Kinda like the ones scattered on the stage.
Whoops.
He turned in his seat on the bench, spearing me with his shockingly crystalline eyes. Not blue, not green, not gray—a mix of all three. I tried to scurry back to the side stage and fell on my ass.
“You steal my light and now steal my thunder?”
“Shit.” I scooted back to the side of the stage.
“Now, now, love. Don’t go running away.” He stood and followed me. “You obviously wanted a picture of me, yeah?”
His accent held something other than just London. Not that I knew the difference besides a few binge-worthy moments with Sherlock. No, this guy’s voice was insidiously captivating and made my skin sizzle.
“Dare I make it a little easier for you?” He snatched my camera. “Just how am I supposed to take a selfie with this?” He turned to the crowd and the snickers started.
I lunged for it, but he was even taller than I’d first thought. Add in him extending his long arm above his head and there was no hope of me getting it back. That, and I was about as athletic as a toddler.
“No, definitely not one to take a selfie with.” He frowned up at it then back down at me. “Insta? Is that what this is? Are you even old enough to have been born when this was created?”
I was never going to be able to call it a Polaroid after he said it that way. And that annoyed me even further. “Give it back.”
His eyes crinkled at the corners. “I quite like it. I think I’ll keep it. The cost for interrupting my show.”
I jumped. He could not have that camera. Any one but that one. Panic crawled up my spine. “You’ve had your fun.”
A dimple dented his cheek as he looked out at the crowd then back down at me. “Oh, you haven’t seen me have fun. Yet.”
“I’m serious.”
“She’s a feisty one. Little bit of a thing, but feisty.” He leaned down until our noses were nearly touching. “What will you do to get it back?”
I didn’t even think about it. My knee came up automatically, thanks to Bent’s training. For a split second, I knew he’d be proud.
But then singer guy crumpled into himself, and my camera hit the floor. Son of a bitch. If he broke it, I was going to kill him. I lunged for it, but my slouchy hat slipped free due to the forward momentum and then there was nothing but a pile of blond and lavender hair in my way.
It gave him just enough time to scoop up my camera. “You’re definitely not getting it now.”
The house lights went down and a furious torrent of whispers from the crew was all I could make out as they came out to reset the stage. Chaos rained down on me and the only thing left on the stage was my hat.
But suddenly, there was applause. Lots of it.
I caught the prick’s quick grin from the other side of the stage. Then he took off with my camera.
“Fucker.”
Two
With a heavy exhale, I dropped down into the seat at the dressing room table and scrubbed a hand over my sweaty brow. I’d actually run from the photographer.
Like a child playing hide-and-go-seek.
Hoping she’d give chase, and soon realizing she had not.
Now I had this ancient relic in my hands and I didn’t have the foggiest what to do with it. So I set it on the side of the table and frowned at it as if it were a serpent.<
br />
It had become a lucky charm of sorts. I’d finally gotten the audience with me when my part of the set was over.
That it had taken me sparring with the lively blond-haired sprite who’d darkened my stage for the crowd to truly come alive was a burr I couldn’t quite dig out of my side.
I twisted my hair up into a hasty bun and peered into the mirror atop the table. It was like a cracked sliver of glass, but worked well enough for me to scrub off the hint of eyeliner I’d dutifully painted on. Even using that much makeup was new for me. I’d never been one to like much artifice onstage until I’d done the talent show and suddenly, rouge and lip stain had become a part of my life.
Not over here. I wasn’t putting any of that on my face. Bad enough I’d had to buy a new tube of this black eye gunk tonight, but new beginnings and all that.
And for my efforts, I’d had boos and hisses along with a mixed bag of cheers until the little photographer had shimmied onto my stage.
She hadn’t been trying to get my attention. Far from it. I think my speaking to her had knocked her composure down a peg or two, but she’d quickly regained it and gone toe-to-toe with me. I liked that. Simpering females weren’t my bag.
Oh, I was male enough to enjoy the praise of a good woman—or even better, a bad one. But fawning was a much different thing altogether. I might crave the life of a rockstar for a number of reasons, but false idolatry wasn’t one of them. My face got me enough pussy that I didn’t need the added props of a microphone and a guitar to get me laid.
I needed them to get me fame and money. Fast.
Forget the American saying I’d seen just today on a poster outside—all it takes is a dollar and a dream. Sure, mate. Instead, I was putting my tokens on a spin of the wheel where I was the ace in the hole. But judging from tonight, audiences on this side of the pond weren’t exactly buying what I was selling just yet.
