WARNING: This book has one girl and five bad boy rockstars. She owns them all—heart, body and soul.
Don't read it unless you like to ugly cry…and also unless you like threesomes, foursomes…and moresomes.
Groupie
Groupie © C.M. Stunich 2017
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
For information address Sarian Royal Indie Publishing, 89365 Old Mohawk Rd, Springfield, OR 97478.
www.sarianroyal.com
ISBN-10: 193862338x (eBook)
ISBN-13: 978-1-938623-38-7 (eBook)
Cover art and design © Amanda Carroll and Sarian Royal
"Timeless" Font © Manfred Klein
"Autumn in November" Font © Misti's Fonts
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, businesses, or locales is coincidental and is not intended by the author.
this book is dedicated to the healing power of love
in all its many forms and incarnations.
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Author's Note
Welcome to Groupie, the first book in the Rock-Hard Beautiful Trilogy. Before you read this book, make sure you're ready for one girl to fall for five rockstars with broken pasts—and then make sure you're ready for all of them to love her back. This is a new adult erotic rockstar read with a strong focus on the power of love and its ability to overcome heartache. The sex scenes are explicit, but beautiful and the feelings are real.
If you're ready, turn the page and meet Lilith and her boys—all five of them.
P.S. I do NOT know which man our main character will end up with…or if she'll only end up with one. Only time will tell the end to Lil's story.
Love, C.M. Stunich (aka Violet Blaze)
Tears stripe my cheeks like melancholy stars, twinkling in the bright lights cast by oncoming cars. Their high beams streak over my face and away, rocketing off through the night, a night that for me has just come to a screeching halt.
I dash the tears away with the back of my hand, my mother's silver charm bracelet jingling with the motion, and lean my forehead against the steering wheel. My eyes might be crying, but I'm not making any other sounds. I sit there silent and still, the radio playing some gentle rock ballad to carry my pain into the night.
“Look into his eyes and say goodbye; never let another day go by; don't miss the quiet moments in between; never love and never leave again.”
I sit up and grab my phone from the cup holder, pressing the home button and waiting for the screen to light up again. My stomach twists and catapults bile into my throat as I struggle not to throw up.
One text.
That's it.
All it takes to change the whole world.
In ten words, my stepmother has literally destroyed the last little piece of me.
Lilith, I'm sorry but your father passed away this morning.
No matter how hard or how long I stare, that sentence doesn't make any sense. Dad can't be dead; Dad's all I have left. Just me and Dad.
My hands shake as I toss my phone into the passenger seat and run my fingers through the rich auburn strands of my hair. Same color as Dad's. Well, what Dad's used to be before the chemo.
“Fuck this.”
My voice quivers as I turn the key in the ignition and start the engine, peeling away from the dirty, dry shoulder of the highway. I press the pedal to the floor, but no matter how fast I go, how many miles I put behind me, it doesn't change anything.
Dad is dead.
Next time I stop, it's at a gas station.
How?
That's the only word I can seem to type, but before I even press send, I know the answer to my own question. Dad was sick; Dad had cancer; Dad is dead.
I just left the city, is the text I send instead, because I really did just get off after a hard night's work and climb in my car with everything I own. The plan was for me to move in with my dad and stepmother, help take care of him until … he got better. Although I think I was the only idiot who ever believed he'd beat the cancer. Cancer can't be beat; it's a fucking monster. It killed my mom when I was in high school and now … “Dad is dead.”
I say the words aloud, but I don't believe them, not really.
This is a very hard time for me, is what my stepmother, Susan, sends back in response. I stare at those words and feel anger ripple across my skin like a hot desert breeze. I'm in Arizona now; I just want to get back to New York. Even if my dad is gone, I want to see his body one last time. I need to see it.
I shove my phone in my pocket and climb out of my car, heading inside and digging around in my purse for some money. There's nothing left on my debit card; my bank account is currently negative. And my credit cards … maxed out. Dad had promised he'd have Susan wire me some money for gas … but now Dad is dead.
He's dead.
“Are you in line?” some guy asks gently, snapping me out of my stupor. I glance up and feel my throat get tight all of a sudden. He's looking at me with careful sympathy, like he can tell something's wrong. If I wasn't in total shock right now, I'd be into this guy with the beautiful mouth and the kind eyes. Something about his face, about the cool calmness of his expression makes my chest tight and brings a sudden surge of emotion crashing over my aching heart.
My lips part, like I could spill all my hurt into the air right now and he'd take care of it for me.
Fucking ridiculous.
Me and my pain, all we have is each other.
The gorgeous guy in the vintage band tee looks me up and down in my holey jeans and white tank. My body is all curves, falling out of my clothes in all the wrong places. Round hips, full breasts, skin the color of cream. My dad's side of the family is Irish and Scottish, so there's a sea of freckles across my nose that some guys think is cute. Clearly, the boy in front of me does, too.
“I, uh, seem to have misplaced my wallet,” I say, shoving the offending item deep into the depths of my purse, so he can't see it and realize I'm lying.
He looks me over again with eyes the color of a tropical sea. I wonder for a moment as he stares at me if he's wearing contacts, but I don't think so. As I look at him, tears spring to my eyes unbidden. I try to choke them back, but he sees anyway.
“Here,” he tells me, dressed in a rugged pair of jeans that look too expensive to be real. Something about the way they crease, something about the sharp smell of denim. His short auburn hair is shaped into a low mohawk, and he smiles at me when he passes over a wad of green bills. “For your tank.”
“Thanks,” I say as I curl my fingers around the money, my eyes drawn to his long fingers. Lines of fire scorch my skin where he touches me which only makes me cry harder.
There's a long, drawn-out sigh from this guy as he ruffles his hair with his musician's hands.
“Do you want a hug?” he asks which both surprises and weirds me out.
“No,” I say, taking a step back, curving my own fingers around the money. I look at him warily, like I think he expects to get something out of me for this cash. My eyes narrow and he sighs again, shrugging his muscular shoulders.
“Too bad.” His smile is sharp and short. “I'm really good at them.”
And then he steps up to the counter and tosses some money onto the glass, leaving with a pair of energy drinks and a bag of beef jerky. I notice he has a book tucked under one arm, too.
I breathe out suddenly as he disappears through the glass doors of the convenience store and into the hot desert night.
“Miss?”
I glance up at the clerk behind the counter and then down at the bills in my hand. Eight fives. Forty bucks. Wow. More generous than I expected.
I put it all in my tank and head back outside.
While I wait for my shitty AMC Matador to fill up, I check my phone again. I realize vaguely that my hands are shaking and my eyes are blurring with tears again, but I push all of that emotion down, tuck it deep inside and let it eat at what's left of my soul.
There's no need for you to come now, Susan says in her next text. I try to call her, but if the bitch can't be bothered to call me to tell me that my last living family member is now dead, then why should she pick up now?
I throw my purse to the ground and dump its contents on the oil soaked pavement, searching for any loose bills, any change. There's about fifty cents in dimes and nickels. When I bury my fingers in the pockets of my jeans, I find a five dollar bill.
Five dollars and fifty six cents.
That's what I have to my name.
I clamp a hand over my mouth and sit back on my ass, the vast expanse of a desert sky stretching above me like the domed roof of an amphitheater. Not caring that I'm lying on the ground at a gas station, I fall onto my back and let the tears drip down either side of my face.
When the pump ticks to let me know the gas is done, I sit back up, sniffling, and gather my things back in my purse. As I do, I catch sight of a shiny strip of paper, shaped like a bookmark.
BROKEN HEARTS AND TWISTED SOULS TOUR featuring Beauty in Lies, Rivers of Concrete, and Tipped by Tyrants @ the Lyndon-Carter Stadium March 21st. Doors open @ 8 p.m.
It's a concert ticket, one that my last boyfriend bought me a few months back. When we broke up, he left the pair of them in our apartment, an apartment that I no longer have. I gave that up when he cheated on me, gave up my new apartment to move back to New York to be with my dad. I gave up my job. I even gave up my cat.
I search frantically through crumpled receipts and coffee stained napkins with little notes scribbled on them, until I find the second ticket.
The concert is tonight of all nights, but it's right here in Phoenix. I could take these tickets to the show and sell them outside the door to some kids looking for a good deal. Then, with the money, I could get to New York.
Dad might be dead, but surely even my wicked stepmother will give him a proper funeral?
I stand up and jerk the hose from the Matador's tank, shoving it back into place on the gas pump as I simultaneously look up directions to the concert venue. It's early yet, but I should still be able to hawk these tickets outside—looks like the show tonight is already sold out. Maybe I can even get some good money, enough to buy food and possibly a night or two at a motel? The drive from Phoenix to New York is long: thirty-six hours of straight driving.
I climb in my car, start the engine and head off in the direction of the venue.
As I drive, I think I see the guy with the expensive jeans and the tropical eyes on the side of the road, but I don't stop. I don't have any business with him, and boys that look like that can only mean trouble.
Whoever could've predicted he'd be one of the five … one of my five.
Lily and her five rockstars.
I'd give them my body, my heart, and my soul. I'd descend into their darkness as they embraced my own … and our connections would be pure poetry.
I'd become Lilith Tempest Goode, the ultimate groupie for Beauty in Lies.
In my own way, I would join their band, and sex … that would be my instrument.
The Lyndon-Carter Stadium is a massive beast, a large circular building with a revolving stage. Ever since I moved to Arizona with my boyfriend, I've wanted to see a show here. Tonight, I couldn't care less.
I stand on the sidewalk in the early evening dark, a cool, dry breeze chasing across the fine hairs on my arm as I stand there with the tickets tucked into my purse, watching the already massive line snake around the side of the building and into the parking lot.
I pray to god that nobody breaks into my car tonight; everything I own is in there. Everything.
Pulling in a deep breath, I approach the line, wishing I'd slipped on a jacket before getting out of the car. We might be in the desert, but it's in the mid-fifties and I feel a chill creeping across my skin. Maybe that's just the melancholia, slipping across my skin like a blanket?
Dad is dead.
I'm twenty-one years old and all alone. No family, no friends, no boyfriend.
I'm literally … nothing and nobody.
I march toward the gathered crowd and start to notice some men and women dressed in blue windbreakers, the word Security stamped across their backs in yellow capital letters. They look so fucking stern that I start to falter, watching people move around and chatter in excited voices. There's a hush to the air, like the calm before a tsunami breaks. The thought of being in the audience when it finally does … is exhilarating.
Dad died today, bitch.
How can I even be considering something as shallow as a rock concert?
I cross my arms over my chest, my pink leather purse swinging in the crook of my arm as I try to decide how best to go about this. Do I just walk up there and start yelling about my extra tickets? I decide to just go up and ask; I need to get this money and get the hell out of here. If I have to drive day and night with no food and no sleep, just to get to my dad's funeral, that's what I'll do. I have to see his face one more time, so I can imagine his smile, so I can memorize the curve of his jaw or the shape of his lips. Pictures help, but … I need the real thing, one last time.
“Excuse me?” I ask one of the women in the jackets. She barely glances my way. “My father just passed and I can't attend the show tonight. Is it okay if I sell my tickets out here?”
I say the words, but I don't feel them, not really. How could I? Just last night Dad sent me a text telling me was looking forward to seeing me. How can he be dead? Shouldn't someone—Susan, his doctor, even Dad himself—have known how damn sick he was?
Maybe this whole thing isn't a surprise to anyone but me?
I chock back tears as the woman gives me a sympathetic look that I ignore, and nods briskly.
“Face value only unless you're more than two hundred feet away from the door.” She turns, dirty blonde ponytail ruffling in the breeze, mimicking the whip of her navy blue windbreaker against her back. The woman smacks her gum as she points at a spot near the edge of the parking lot. “Just about there.”
“Thanks,” I say, moving away from the crowd and feeling stupid standing there in my white tank and jeans, a pair of heels on my feet. I was so eager to get home to see Dad that I didn't think clearly when I packed up the car. The heels I wore to work today were literally the only pair of shoes I could find. It feels sacrilegious, wearing these bright red heels when my father lies cold and breathless somewhere in Gloversville, New York.
I only have to stand there for a few minutes when a young couple approaches me and offers up two hundred bucks for the pair of tickets. I'm pretty sure Kevin only paid about sixty-five for each, so I happily hand them over and pocket the money.
It's only as I'm walking back to my car that I see him.
There's this physical reaction in my gut, like I've been punched, and I almost topple over in my heels, putting out a hand to steady myself against the side of a random pickup truck.
He's sitting on the hood of some classic car wearing a suit. Like, who wears a suit in the middle of the desert? It's expensive, clearly tailored, dark as night. His cufflinks glimmer as he lifts a cigarette to his lips and pauses, glancing over at me, eyes pale grey and apathetic as he stares at me. Tattoos peek out from under the sleeves of his white button-up, staining his hand with color.
“So you caught me,” he says, which makes literally no sense. I can't stop staring at him, my heart pummeli
ng my rib cage. I have to blink several times to steady myself, rising fully to my feet and damning my high heels to hell.
I stare down at the shoes and suddenly, I just start thinking of blood. I have no idea why; the thought just comes randomly and slams into my chest almost as hard as my reaction to Suit Guy.
He smokes his cigarette as I stand there and stare at my shoes, lifting my face finally to meet his bored, disinterested gaze. He looks like an asshole; I want nothing to do with him.
I keep walking.
“Where the bloody hell are you going?” he asks, sounding shocked and disgusted as I pass by him without a second glance. The sound of his accent draws my attention back, unbidden, and I catch more tattoos at his throat, just above the starched white collar of his shirt. He's even wearing a tie, this guy.
I watch as he drops his cigarette and puts it out with a pair of expensive loafers. I know expensive loafers. My ex-boyfriend of five years, his dad is a big shot attorney and he always wears shoes that cost more than my car.
“Here.” Suit Guy holds out one of his tattooed hands and drops a laminate badge. It spins in the desert breeze as I wrinkle up my eyebrows. Rich auburn strands tackle my face and I scoop them away, trying to get a better look at this dude. He must think he's hot shit, for sure. “Well? Are you completely mental? Take it.”
“I'm sorry,” I say as I wrinkle my brow and turn to face him, crossing my ankles and lacing my fingers behind my neck. This is my strength pose; I do it all the time when I'm trying to stand up to somebody or something. In this case, it isn't the sexy British a-hole in the suit. This time, it's grief. Kevin always hated it when I stood this way; he said I looked like I was trying too hard. The thing is, I'm not trying at all. I never really have, and that's part of my problem. “Who are you?”
The man in the suit laughs and then he just drops the badge on the ground.
“Better hurry,” he says, giving me this rapid flick of eyes that I guess is a once-over, “show starts soon.”
Groupie (Rock-Hard Beautiful Book 1) Page 1
