Come Undone: Romance Stories Inspired by the Music of Duran Duran
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Come Undone:
Romance Stories Inspired by the Music of Duran Duran
Rebel Romance Books
An Imprint of Irksome Rebel Press
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
While the stories are inspired by the music of Duran Duran, the publisher does not claim the book to be endorsed by the band. No lyrics are used in the book. We have borrowed the song titles only and the stories referenced below are the individual authors’ intellectual property.
New Moon on Monday © by Kim Carmichael
Ordinary World © by Solera Winters
Hungry Like the Wolf © Louisa Bacio
Before the Rain © Kerry Adrienne
Wild Boys © C. Margery Kempe
Love Voodoo © Alyssa Breck
Union of the Snake © KC Burn
Girls on Film © Linnea Alexis
Rio © Sabrina Sol
Original Cover Art: Tim Payne
Cover Design: JWORX Designs
Book Design: Tamara Eaton
ISBN-13: 978-0692490686 (Irksome Rebel Romance)
Playlist
New Moon on Monday
Ordinary World
Hungry Like the Wolf
Before the Rain
Wild Boys
Love Voodoo
Union of the Snake
Girls on Film
Rio
The passion takes place at the
New Moon on Monday
by
Kim Carmichael
Dedication
To the bands that made this 80’s girl dreams take flight.
Acknowledgements
My Husby: Without you, all the happily ever afters wouldn’t mean a thing.
C and T: Thank you for always being supportive and for all the hours you let me have so I can create my worlds.
My Fluff Balls: You are happiness personified.
Tamara Eaton: With you, I am a better writer, a better storyteller, and a better friend. Thank you.
Emily Kidman-Smith: You always make everything look better! You are my mouthpiece.
Teresa Neeley-Martin: My comma whisperer. Thank you for perfecting my stories. You are the finishing touch!
Vicki Rose: You are new to my team and a most welcome addition. Thank you for your enthusiasm.
Joe, Michelle, Alexis, Eva, Kat, Lisa, and Courtney: You take my crazy and accept it. Thank you.
Louisa Bacio: Thank you for thinking of this amazing project.
All the 80’s Bands: I grew up with you and you live in my dreams.
Duran Duran: You personify the music I love. Thank you.
A Note from the Author
New Moon on Monday has always held a special place in my heart as my favorite Duran Duran song. I pride myself in being an expert in the great art of car singing, and this song played on repeat many of time always with a scene from a dance club in my head. My inspiration for the story came from that little flicker in my mind coupled with the band’s noted love of fashion.
~ Kim Carmichael
Chapter One
FROM OUTSIDE THE CLUB, the pound of the deep bass music vibrated through Owen Blakeley’s body. Too many years had passed since he ventured to one of these places. The music, the smoke in the air and the general disarray coupled with the kaleidoscope of people would serve as the perfect inspiration.
“You know I need your help.” Blake pointed to the renovated old warehouse in the heart of downtown LA flooded in purple lights. “Come on, let’s do this.”
“Club New Moon. Are you sure?” His head tailor, Sam Palmer, shook his head. “I think this looks like a better place to find a communicable disease rather than inspiration.”
“New moons are a sign of change, renewal, a revolution.” Blake charged forward, stopping at a tinted window. “Drink some alcohol, it’s a natural antiseptic.”
The window slid open and a man wearing leather, chains and more makeup than most women donned on the runway barely glanced in his direction. While tempted to ask the man who he was wearing or where he got his particularly interesting jacket with the multitude of buckles and spikes, Blake opted to hand over a hundred dollar bill, and without a word held up two fingers. A moment later two yellow neon wristbands were thrust in his direction. He handed one to Sam and they made their way past an extremely large man who appeared ready to kill and through an oversized door.
At one point this warehouse might have held priceless works of art, maybe machinery, or even government experiments. Who knew what ghosts, muses and secrets lurked around the space?
As they made their way through the wide-open area, he took in the array of people. Along with the buckles and chains came the denim, women in corsets and lace, boots and heels of every configuration. The fashion industry was missing out. This place was where the trends needed to be set, in the underground, in the unconventional, not by corporations choosing colors and fabrics based on market research and overstock.
“I’m not dancing with you.” Sam elbowed him.
“Quiet.” He needed to absorb the atmosphere.
Sam followed. “Of course, I wouldn’t want to interrupt the peace and quiet.”
For quite some time he wandered around, bobbing and weaving through the crowd until they made their way toward the back with a huge bar and some tables. He spied an empty one and took a seat.
“I can’t sit here.” Sam shoved his hands in his pockets and bent down. “I’m wearing a Blake original.”
“No one told you to wear a suit to a nightclub.” Blake kicked the opposite chair out from under the table to give his employee the hint. “At least you know where you can get another one…at cost.”
“Screw you.” After taking his time to assess the chair, Sam sat and a grimace took over his face.
“You’re not my type.” Blake scanned the area, turning around to make sure he took in everything. What he noticed most about the scene was the creativity. Anything and everything was fair game, from fetish wear to more traditional styles, vintage to what modern could be. The possibilities were a far cry from a suit and a tie. Though his designs were some of the best around, he could only push the male corporate uniform so far.
“What can I get you?”
A feminine voice broke through his study time and he turned toward it.
He swore a beacon of light shined down upon the woman and the background completely disappeared.
Before him stood the living incarnation of what he envisioned when he decided to start his women’s line. Curves for days were outlined to a tee by a black corset embroidered with blood red roses, while perfectly smooth white skin led up to a heart shaped face with luscious lips and light eyes. Her stark makeup only enhanced her delicate features and gave her that edge he craved. Shining red hair served as the cherry on top of her delicious offering.
“Do you have a wine list?” Sam asked.
“Sure, I know it by heart.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “White or red.”
Blake tore his focus away from the bounty bursting forth from her corset and glanced down at her shoes. Stilettos. If she could navigate the club in those shoes, what could she do on a runway? Of course he would have to teach her how to stand.r />
“Red.” Sam let out a huff.
“And you?” At last, the goddess turned her attention to him. The choker at her neck was interesting, a mix of leather and more roses. Maybe a vintage cameo with a silk ribbon would suit her better, especially if she put her hair up.
“What?” He could deconstruct the choker, make it high end, use some different material, maybe even metal.
“What would you like?” She tapped her foot.
If he answered honestly, he would most likely be rewarded with being impaled on one of those amazing shoes. “You shouldn’t fidget like that. It does nothing for your clothes.” He wanted to take her all in without any distraction. “Wait, let me rephrase that.”
With a glare, she crossed her arms.
“Never cover yourself.” In order to take her in from a different angle, he tilted his head. “My God, you are in perfect proportion.”
She put her hands on her hips, accentuating her hourglass figure. “Hey pal, what are you, some sort of fashion designer?”
“Actually, yes. I am.” All he could do is stare at the beauty.
“What do you want?” Eyes narrowed, she jutted out her jaw.
“Your name.” They may as well start with the basics and work their way out from there. He had to get to know her better and flashed her a smile.
“Two red wines.” She spun on her heel and walked away and didn’t trip on those sky-high shoes.
Yes, he found his muse.
* * * *
“TWO OUTCAST MEN ENTERED my space, one with a frown, the other a pretty face.” Luna Morrow shook her head. No matter how hard she tried to write poems that really meant something, lines fit for a literary journal, her poetry ended up sounding more like something fit for a dollar store greeting card.
The only men who came to the New Moon in suits and wannabe outfits were either from the health department, or some sort of jerk who thought the women here were easy. Luna glanced over at the quote, unquote fashion designer’s table. The cute couple would be in need of a refill soon or the pretty boys needed to get out of her table.
Of course, she had been repeating this mantra for two hours, but every time she walked over to kick them out, the guy with the shoe fetish would reorder, hand her a hundred dollar bill and insist she keep the change.
Thus far she made more than her weekly salary, and she justified her tip because every time she approached the weirdo he spewed out another one of his fashion pearls of wisdom. Something told her his pearls were most definitely imitation.
Unsure if they got lost on their way to or from Beverly Hills, or if they thought they were being alternative, Luna decided to end their misery and hers. Plus, it was almost time for her shift to end and her feet were killing her.
Again, she approached the table.
"There she is, the woman, the vision, the giver of wine and merriment." Mr. Designer motioned toward her.
"Oh, lord." She shook her head. The two of them polished off the club’s entire jug of red wine they kept for posers. No one really knew how long it had been under the counter. Maybe it turned to vinegar. Her patron was most definitely pickled.
"We will have another round." He pressed his hand to his temple.
"Well, my fine dressed friend, I think rather than more rounds, it's that time for me and for you." She bent down and reached into her boot grabbing the wad of bills she collected from his change.
"I agree." The less jovial one piped in.
"Wait." Sir Stiletto raised his hand.
She put her hand on her hip and waited.
"If you're through for the evening, may I ask you to dance?" He flashed her a smile.
"Wouldn't your better half here get jealous?" Honestly, what cat dragged this man here?
"I'm married." The sourpuss in the three-piece suit raised his hand showing off a gold band. "To a female, not him. I’m merely the babysitter."
"I'm single." The designer who should be a model interjected.
"I'm done." She slammed the money on the table in front of the living wallet. "I can't take this from you. Consider my tip the conversation, it was first class."
He caught her wrist. "Wait."
"Unless you want to lose that limb, I would let go." She tensed. Up until now she almost got a charge out of him. The man was nothing if not gorgeous. That was if one liked their men straight-laced and clean-cut with dark hair, brooding eyes and a long physique that would tower over her even when she wore his shoes of interest. Yep, thank God she wasn't that person.
Rather than letting go, he kept hold of her hand, took his time to open her fingers from the clenched position and press the folded up cash back into her palm. "This is the least I can do for my inspiration."
Shivers ran through her. She was always the sucker for the misfits. "Well, then take that feeling with you. I will now say goodbye. Do me and the world a favor and if you feel like the wine got to you, call a cab. Okay?"
"I thank you for your concern." He closed her hand around the money and looked up at her. "But rather than a cab, what I need is your name and number so I can call you."
Why she didn't pull back right away was beyond her. "Just chalk me off to one of those nameless cocktail waitress mysteries. I'm sure that will prove to be enough of an inspiration."
"Instead of that, why don't you let me take you somewhere quiet and where we can get to know each other better?" With his other hand, he ran his fingers over hers, as if trying to take in even the most insignificant details.
She swallowed. The man might be handsome, actually beyond handsome, and he may have that powerful yet sweet overtone, and yes she might even like the way he continued to hold her hand, but what he wanted was a quick one night stand with the bad girl.
"Just your name." He stood. "Give me a hint, a sign, a clue, anything."
At last, she jerked her hand away and took in the sight of him. Gorgeous, well dressed, sort of nice and most definitely tall. What an asshole. "I'm named after a part of the club."
"Let me just talk to you." Once more he captured her hand. "Please."
"What do you want from me?" She stepped back, forcing him to release her.
"Can't a man find a woman gorgeous and want to get to know her?" A smile grew across his face.
She ground her teeth together. "You think I'm gorgeous?"
"I'll lay it on the line. Yes, my initial attraction is your looks, but isn't that everyone's?" He inched closer. "You're gorgeous, I would love to get to know you. If you don't think it too bold, I would love for you to model for me."
"I think you definitely need to call a cab." She spun on her heel and stomped away without even bothering to clear the table.
The man was a creepster to the nth degree. Her a model? What a line, what a jerk.
She waved to her supervisor, giving him the signal to watch the drunks and that she was leaving, and rushed to the back employee area, making her way to the tiny locker room. Anger shaking through her, it took her two tries to work her combination lock, kick off her tip getting shoes and retrieve her flats and her bag. She shoved the tip she now felt she earned in her bag, tossed her heels in her locker and slammed the door twice.
Before leaving, she sat down on the small bench in the room. Men sucked. How many times did she need to learn that lesson?
"Why doesn't any woman ever believe it when a man says she's gorgeous?"
At the sound of her marinated patron, Luna jumped off the bench. "How did you get back here?"
"I followed the trail of breadcrumbs." He entered her space.
"Paved in hundred dollar bills, no doubt." Refusing to acknowledge how his spicy, fresh cologne wafted around her, she backed up.
"Fine, I did a little bribing, but I couldn't leave without one last thing." He simply stood there.
They stood staring at each other for much longer than necessary.
Finally, she couldn't take it and hit her fist against the locker. The sound of rattling metal blended in with the music i
n the background. "What do you need?"
"I just wanted to take you all in. Imprint your image in my mind." He nodded.
Her stomach betrayed her by flipping over and she dug her nails into the heel of her hand. Later, when she didn't want to beat the crap out of someone or something, she would write his lines down and transform them into a usable poem. Her brother always told her to use every experience, maybe this would be the one she needed to make the words publishable. If she kept her rejection letters she would look like a hoarder and end up on a television show. "All right, well I supposed you paid for the privilege, but the meter's up on this gig."
"I understand." He pressed his back to the wall, allowing her room to pass.
She grabbed her bag and made her way toward the door.
A low laugh escaped his throat.
Though she willed herself to keep going, some unknown force within her caused her to stop right beside him. "Now you're laughing at me?"
"Never." He shook his head. "I was only admiring how delightfully small in stature you are without your heels."
Delightful and her mixed as well as mayonnaise and red wine, or in her case a designer and a waitress. "Don't you designer types like them long and lanky?"
"I believe a woman is meant to have curves. Clothes should caress the body, make the wearer feel as if they are being made love to. They should enhance what is already there, but they should never let anyone feel as if they don't fit." He leaned down to her ear. "Hear my words, always believe them…you are gorgeous."
Maybe it was his cologne, or the way his breath brushed against her ear, or just the sheer fact every woman wanted to hear those words. Maybe she wanted to look at him one more time. Maybe it was something completely different, but she turned and his lips swept over hers.
His wasn't the kiss of some creeper. A man who dug right in with all tongue and mouth and no build up. Rather, his was the kiss of someone who knew how to kiss, how to take things slowly, and let the act grow on its own.