by Jess Bentley
“What was that?" I say when he finally pulls away, slightly breathless at the attention.
“Just saying hello,” he murmurs in that rumbly, sexy voice that makes my panties damp. He presses a brief, tender kiss to my forehead.
As per protocol, we walk around the outside of the group, letting people look at us. Everyone has to see everyone, almost like a much fancier way of having a roll call. But a lot of businesses are like that: being in places where other people are. Making connections, being seen.
He draws me away from the group and into the Louvre, and slowly we meander toward a beautiful landscape, wide and serene.
“You know what that is?”
I nod. “It's a Corot. Quite a lovely one.”
He appraises it with his eyes, scowling.
“I suppose this is the good stuff, eh? What makes it good?”
“Well, it's a pretty typical French composition. There’s a foreground, and there is a far horizon. Then there's sort of a zigzag path that your eye can take so that you can always get to the horizon. It's like hope. Like, there’s always a path forward, figuratively,” I finish thinking how Madame Brevelle would be so proud of my explanation.
“A path forward… is like hope?”
“Yes…” I say slowly. Something is definitely going on here. Why is he acting like he doesn't know anything about art history? And why are all these people casually meandering into this gallery?
I turned to him curiously, but take a half step back when he drops to one knee in front of me. His eyes search mine as his hand dives into his front pocket and withdraws a small black box.
I can hardly believe what I'm seeing, but he opens the box and presents to me. The diamond glitters vivaciously inside it, seeming to send out sparks in all the colors of the rainbow.
“King!” I exclaim. “What is this… Are you—”
“Jordan Burke,” he starts formally, his voice loud and sure in the room. I feel everyone else sort of pressing closer, and I know that they’re listening to every word.
“You came into my life almost by happenstance. I was drawn to you, and I didn't know why,” he continues.
I smile, knowing that he worked on this. It's a speech, carefully crafted so only I will understand its true meaning. I feel my cheeks get hot as I think of all the effort he's put into this.
“You've changed me. You've made me want to change myself. I can only hope that one day I'll really be the man you deserve.”
I hear a collective murmur of approval and my heart flutters with joy.
“I would be so honored, Jordan Burke, if you would agree to be my wife. To spend your forever with me. Will you?”
There's only one answer I can give. The answer is yes, a million times yes. But I can't talk. I'm laughing and nodding and crying, tugging on his hand because I want him to kiss me.
“Yes!” I finally manage to say a moment before his mouth finds mine. He kisses me passionately, holding my lips between his, taking my breath away.
“She said yes!”
“Congratulations!”
“Bonne chance!”
“Congratulations to Jordan Burke and Raleigh King!”
Raleigh.
That’s his name, of course. I only realize now that I got so used to calling him “King” or “R” that the issue of his name fell by the wayside.
Raleigh. Jordan and Raleigh.
We can't get to the Town Car again fast enough. He tugs my hand as gently as he can but we’re both on a mission to get away from the crowd and back to the privacy of the chauffeured car.
The driver holds the door open and then closes it firmly behind us as we fling our bodies into the warm, welcoming space.
My dress slips effortlessly from my shoulders. I push R back onto the seat and sit astride him as he shoves his trousers down past his knees. I wait, for just a moment, wanting to savor this moment before the inevitable.
“Yes,” I say again, more gently this time. I brace my elbows on his shoulders and tangled my fingers in his hair, searching his eyes to find that spark of connection between us.
He smiles, his cheeks crinkling handsomely as he gazes up at me.
“You're going to make me the happiest man in the world, you know.”
“Oh, I know!” I purr. I decide to try it out. “Raleigh...”
Slowly, I allow him to guide me on top of him. His fingers pressed firmly into my thighs as he maneuvers his tip just to my entrance. I try to memorize the delicious sensation as I slowly drop onto him, millimeter by millimeter, feeling my body stretch to accommodate his size.
Tasting every second of this union, I draw the moment out as long as possible, watching his expression change from that smile to a peak of desire and then the pleading expression of overwhelming need.
He moans my name. As I bottom out, taking him completely inside me. I rotate my hips in a luxurious circle so he'll now just how completely I ensheath him.
The car motor rumbles, vibrating beneath us as we prowl the streets of Paris, moaning and crying out in pleasure. When we come, we come together in a thrilling explosion of combined passion.
After, I fall into his arms and watch the city lights pass by in a slow-motion smear, floating on a sea of bliss and contentment. I was lost, and I was lonely. But in Raleigh King’s embrace, I found the only true and honest love I’ve ever known.
Copyright © 2017 by Jess Bentley and Mona Cox
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Rory vs. Rockstar was adapted from an existing work for which Jess Bentley owns rights.
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Prologue
"You think we have time for one more, girls?" Ashley asked, but her hand was already signaling the waiter who was heading over. "Besides, this waiter is fucking hot."
"I mean, it's not like we have a plane to catch or anything," Lisa said, a smile on her lips. "We just got off the plane. All we're doing is sitting here drinking with no real place to go."
“Please," Rory said nodding her head as the waiter put another Cosmopolitan in front of her. He was awfully quick bringing those Cosmo's out as soon as Ashley had ordered another round. Rory began to wonder whether they were in a pitcher in the back, already pre-made for the girls after the first round, just waiting till they were ordered.
Awfully sneaky.
"Please what, babe?" Alicia asked turning to her.
Rory rolled her eyes. "Please, not everyone has nowhere to be," Rory said. "I mean, I still have a flight to catch in an hour."
"Oh right," Alicia said, as if realizing for the first time that Rory had to go. "Why, again?" she asked.
"Oh my God, because I live in Southern California?" Rory asked, with a faint touch of exasperation. "You know, like you did while we were growing up. And when we went to school at USC. You know, before you moved out here."
Rory didn't realize if maybe she had come across a little bit too intensely and immediately felt bad for how she had sounded.
"I mean, I just miss you so much sometimes," she quickly added before Alicia began to think she was being berated. "Why don't you ever think of coming back to California?"
"Um, because New York City is totally the center of the freakin' world," Alicia said, as if explaining a matter-of-fact statement to child. "You need to come to the capital of the world, babe."
"Ugh, I hate big cities," Rory said before taking a sip of her drink. "Give me an island next to the ocean any day of the week and I'm happy with whatever else."
"Really?" Natalie asked her. "What about Manhattan? That's an island."
“An island without three million people living on it," Rory replied with a smile.
"What about if two mil
lion of them were hot guys?" Kim asked.
Rory chuckled. She might not always get along with her friend Alicia, who she had grown up with and known all her life, but she couldn't deny that Alicia had some friends that definitely made life a blast.
The girls had just returned from a Spring Break visit to Myrtle Beach. And while they had fun, Rory was beginning to miss the quiet environs of Montcove—the island community that she had spent summers for as long as she could remember, and where she now lived.
Rory had grown up with her best friend Alicia Sullivan in LA, and Alicia had even visited Montcove a few times. The two had been practically inseparable as they had matured from little girls to young women. They’d shared everything with each other—their first crushes, the first time they kissed a boy. When Alicia had lost her virginity the two had stayed up all night talking about it. And when Rory had finally lost hers a week later, Alicia persuaded her to go to Tijuana together to celebrate.
Now, Alicia was getting married to Derek Lowell, a client of hers from Carter Jeffries. She was living the fast paced New York City lifestyle and had wanted as part of her engagement celebrations to spend a week during Spring Break with her girlfriends. Rory didn't mind it. For a while at least it was even a pleasure to get distracted by all that Myrtle Beach had to offer.
The hot guys walking along the beach were more than enough to eye candy to enjoy each morning as the girls nursed their hangovers on the beach, working on their tans.
But now that week was over. Those days were gone and all she had left to prove they even went, was new bikini shaped tan lines.
But that’s okay. Rory was looking forward to taking over the world with her T-shirt business. And she knew she’d see her friend at Alicia's wedding in 6 months.
That's right. The wedding!
"I'll be in New York City for your wedding," Rory said to Alicia, dreading the thought of actually leaving her island paradise and heading into Manhattan.
"Yeah, but that's in the Hamptons so you won't actually be in New York City," Alicia replied back. "It's not the same thing."
Well, thank God for small favors.
"Attention passengers of United Airlines Flight 43 to Los Angeles," the overhead speaker called out. "Boarding will begin in twenty minutes."
Right. They were going to call out the Elite Super Diamond Prestige Award Members first and then all the other variations of passenger, so Rory was pretty sure she'd be the last person to board the plane.
"I gotta go, ladies," she said, however. "Gotta get that seat. If I board late, they may just throw me off the plane if they're overbooked."
Natalie, Kim, Lisa, Carla, Brittney, Becca, Ashley, Christine, and Alicia all gave a variation of the eye roll. To go through all the reactions took at least a minute.
The hugs took another ten minutes.
Detaching herself from Alicia took another five.
"Promise to come visit, okay?" Alicia said with glossy eyes as she hugged her best friend for the eighth time. "And I promise to come by soon too!"
Promises made, Rory headed towards her gate. Her head spinning from the booze, she had no doubt she'd sit down and fall asleep once she boarded.
And then...Southern California.
Different from what Alicia lived in.
But...there was something about how it felt.
Something was going to happen.
Her life felt as if it was about to change.
She didn't know how.
But Rory definitely felt excited.
One moment it was sunny like an Indian summer on the island of Montcove, and the next moment it would turn into a monsoon. Thankfully bad weather didn’t linger for long and things were mostly peaceful. At least they were, till a few years ago when the peace was disturbed when Montcove suddenly became a celebrity vacation destination.
It took just one celebrity marriage to kick Montcove’s status as an obscure vacation island into oblivion. Where the residents were used to a few thousand tourists a year, now they saw hordes of Hollywood celebrities renting villas and hotels and driving around in their fancy cars. With Hollywood stars came business opportunities, and much to the dismay of local residents, plenty of outsiders had bought up properties and set up shop to cash in on the buzz.
The old German bakery was now a luxury rent-a-car, while the shabby Windwood Hotel had been turned into a luxury rehab. In the three years since the boom started, the residents had seen everything—A-list celebrities, the fanatic tourists who came for celeb spotting, and of course, the dreaded paparazzi.
As good as that was for the economy of the island, many of the residents still found it a nuisance they could do nothing about. It was on one such summer night that the rain gods decided to come down over the island. The residents ran in to take cover, the celebrities rolled up the windows on their expensive sports cars, and the paparazzi rushed to save their expensive camera lenses.
Chapter 1
The wind hit Arsen in the face, determined to do some harm. Beads of sweat mixed with rainwater trickled down from his longish hair as he walked past the main door of the villa. Loud voices, clinking glasses, and smoke fumes trailed him, but he couldn’t care less.
Enough’s enough.
His vision was blurred, thanks to a healthy combination of too much vodka and sleepless nights. For a moment he thought about the cops, only to realize that he wasn’t in LA anymore.
“Podunk town,” he muttered as he opened the door to his red Ferrari and thumped himself down on the driver’s seat. A barrage of swear words left his mouth, and Arsen cursed the day he had agreed to this arrangement.
After a year full of scandals, freak incidents, and decadent overindulgence, he thought that this time away from LA would allow him to do what he did best—make music. Instead, he spent his time getting high, getting drunk, and dwelling in the misery of a songwriter’s block. The ideas had stopped coming, the words all but disappeared, and in the ten days that he and the band had been in Montcove, he had barely written a single verse.
To everyone else, Arsen was in a temporary slump. For them, a triple Grammy-winner shouldn’t take long to churn out a whole bunch of new hit songs. Deep inside, however, he knew that this was no random writer’s block. Everything that had happened to him since his band, Insurrection, took off three years ago had been surreal, and it all led up to this point. Everything was at stake in this game, and only he held the dice.
The arrogant wind grew fiercer as his red Ferrari sped down the hill to the town center, swaying harshly to the songs of Frank Sinatra, one of Arsen’s idols. He didn’t know where he was going or what he was going there for; he just wanted to be away from that Villa, from everyone inside it, and most of all, from himself. Or at least the rock star persona that he’d built up over time.
Arsen grabbed a half-finished bottle of Jack Daniels that sat on the passenger seat and tried to keep his eyes on the road. The rain blurred his already diminished vision. His mind was sending him warning signals. He should’ve pulled off, parked by the side of the road, and asked Don to come pick him up instead. In the back of his mind, he was aware that he shouldn’t be driving at all. But he was desperate to get away from it all: the drugs, the booze, and the scantily-clad sexpots who routinely threw themselves at him.
In all the extravagance, the band had forgotten why they got together in the first place—to make music. All that mattered to his bandmates now was partying, spending money, and utter decadence. Arsen pulled off the bottle cap with his teeth and took a big swig. He flinched as the liquor hit the back of his throat. A few days’ worth of booze rumbled inside his body, and he amused himself by wondering what his DUI reading would be if he were pulled over.
He instinctively took a sharp right turn and barely missed a slow-driving SUV. Fuck. I hope that’s not the paparazzi, he thought. I gotta get away from this shit. A laugh escaped his lips as he thought about wrecking a paparazzi truck. Especially the truck that belonged to this one paparazzo that he
was sick of.
Agitation coupled with frustration was driving him to a point where he felt claustrophobic every time he was in the room with his bandmates. They refused to work hard—or work at all—and as always, he knew that as the lead guitarist and the main songwriter, the onus was once again upon him to come up with a full album’s worth of hit songs.
The record label was pressuring him for new material, and their agent was burning up his ear with his own demands, but Arsen had struggled to come up with anything. His fingers tapped a nervous rhythm on the steering wheel as he thought of the countless deadlines.
Neon lights from the billboards flashed by the corners of his eyes as he took another swig from the bottle. Fuck. His throat burned and he realized that he hadn’t eaten anything all day or maybe for the last couple of days. Who could remember? Time and hunger ceased to matter when you were high all the time.
“And now, the end is near, and so I face the final curtain.” Singing along with Sinatra, his voice automatically found the harmony after years of handling backup vocal duties.
I should find a hotel. Sign in under an anonymous name and spend a few days by myself. The plan seemed sound to him. Maybe that will finally help me get my groove back. Or maybe I should just check myself into a rehab.
Arsen had thought about that a few times, but then rejected the idea as it would’ve simply created a huge stir in the media and spread panic among the record company executives. As it was, the members of Insurrection had enough public scandals going on at any given time.
Lights flashed into his eyes from a car across the road and he squinted, barely able to see where he was heading. One last sip remained in the bottle and Arsen grabbed it tightly with an intention to finish it in one go.
As he lifted the bottle to his mouth, he saw something zip across the street, maybe a dog or a cat, about twenty yards away from where he was. Arsen brought down his foot heavily on the brakes, and the whiskey bottle went flying from his hand as he hurriedly turned the steering wheel.
