by Mia McAdams
His heart beats for the music. She’s his favorite song.
A Rock Star Romance, #1
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by Mia McAdams
Cover Design: Fleur Camacho
Editor: Write Divas
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
This book is intended for mature audiences.
For more information, please contact Mia at [email protected]
To beautiful words and the people brave enough to arrange them.
Lyric, 15 years old
“Lyric, stop!”
My dad’s calling, but it’s too late. I’m already running to my hiding place—a dark corner beneath the stairwell fitted with a single couch. I fall onto a blue and white checkered cushion. It releases a hefty poof of dust as a heaving sob bubbles up my throat.
I should have known it would come to this. The last three years have been too perfect. Too . . . normal. Life is safer on the road where instability is expected.
This is what betrayal feels like. Like someone threw my heart in the blender and set it on a slow grind. My daddy just mutilated my heart. And I apparently watch too many horror films.
“Are you okay?”
I jump and swivel to face the strange voice, but there’s an echo and I’m not sure where to look. My heart rate spikes and my nails dig into the ratty seat that once provided comfort.
“Up here,” he calls.
I look up. There’s an outline of a face peering back at me between the stairs. Someone is there. Watching me. Listening to me.
I should be scared.
“What are you doing here?” I call out angrily. “No one is allowed back here.”
The boy chuckles. “Well, then you know why I’m here. I’m a rebel. And so are you.”
“Are you here for the show?” Of course he’s here for the show. He must be. Though I’m not sure how he managed to sneak backstage. Security at the Aragon is tighter than most venues I’ve been to.
“Not really. You?”
“Not really,” I mimic. Of course I’m here for the show. I’m always here for the shows. I practically live here, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“If you’re done crying, you can come with me.”
That was rude. “Where are you going?” He may have piqued my interest, but I don’t hide my distrust.
“It’s a surprise. Come up here and I’ll show you.”
Isn’t that what the serial murderers say before they lock their victims up and torture them slowly? My heart is pounding. It’s fear, beating itself out of me, screaming for me to run and find my dad.
“Who are you?”
“I’m someone who is about to blow your mind and make you forget whatever it was you were just crying about. See, I already have, haven’t I?”
There’s a tug at the corner of my lips. The boy is arrogant, that’s for sure.
I get up from the couch.
I reach the stairs and the boy’s there, still blanketed in darkness, but a dim light from above illuminates his face. He appears to be my age. And he’s smiling. Or maybe he’s smirking. His eyes are kind. His features seem to be soft, but the fauxhawk gives him an edge.
There’s something about him—something that reminds me of . . . me. There’s loneliness there, behind his rough edges. Maybe some anger too.
“Well,” I say to him with an exaggerated shrug. “What is this surprise?”
He extends a hand, never lifting his eyes from mine and I look down at it. Stare at it, conflicted. This is beyond strange, but it excites me, and for that awful, stupid reason alone, I place my hand in his.
He turns and leads me up the stairs and opens the door with a key. Sounds of the city blast us as he steps outside, his back holding the door open. Adrenaline takes over my body. It pushes me forward and ignores every warning that’s screaming from my subconscious.
“How did you get that?” I gesture to the key in his hand, unsure if he can hear the shakiness in my voice with the blend of night traffic.
“I stole it.”
At least he’s honest.
He never lets go of my hand. The door slams behind us. We have to step around the wall to see the rest of the space, and then we’re walking to the edge of the roof. I tug on his hand, silently letting him know this is as far as I want to go, but he pulls me forward. “Come on.”
I think my heart might just be pumping hard enough to push its way out my throat. I can’t do heights. My feet become heavy, and when we’re a few feet from the edge, they stop moving completely. The boy turns to face me, a look of admonishment on his face at my resistance.
And then he sees me. Recognizes my fear. I watch as the rough edges of his features soften once more. He steps closer. When he wraps his arms around me, his warmth surprises me. The boy is caring, and the heart beating against the walls of his chest is loud. Strong. Good.
I’m shaking in his arms, but it’s no longer because we’re near the edge of the roof. “Geez, girl. Okay, okay, no pressure.”
After a few seconds, my breathing returns to normal, but I don’t pull away. I'm too afraid to see how close we are to the edge. As if reading my mind, he pulls me toward the center of the rooftop and releases me. We sit facing each other. My face is flushed, but it’s dark enough that I don’t think he can see it. The moonlight casts a faint glow on us both, illuminating more of our features.
He’s giving me a curious look now. “Are you afraid of heights?” I nod. “Okay.” He draws the word out, thinking. “Do you want to tell me why you were crying down there?”
For a second, my thoughts collide into each other, and I’m unsure what I really want to tell him. And then I decide that he’s been fairly nice up until this point, and I can’t seem to forget the warmth of his hold, so I tell him the truth. He may be the only person I’ve ever confided in, but why not talk to a stranger if I’m going to talk to anyone at all? He can judge me all he wants, and I never have to see him again.
“My dad is sending me to live with my mother.”
“And you don’t like her.”
It’s not a question, and I don’t intend to answer it anyway.
“I like it here.”
“I don’t blame you.”
It’s hard not to look at him. Now that I’m allowing myself to steal longer glances, I can see that he’s cute. Definitely boyfriend material in the face. Still figuring out the personality, though.
“How did you know you could get up here, anyway? I know the hidden spaces of this place better than anyone, but I’ve had three years to explore.” I narrow my eyes at him—as if that will do anything. He’s already lured me up here and become familiar with too many of my weaknesses.
He shrugs. “I pay attention.” A grin emerges through his tough expression. He’s breaking. “I saw some guy up here earlier today when we arrived, so I knew it was possible, and it didn’t take me long to find a spare key.”
I can’t help it. I laugh, then lean back on my hands, tilting my head at him. “I think I like you.”
His raised eyebrow gives him away. He’s reading way too much into that. “No, no,” I backpedal. “I just mean you were a little creepy when I first me
t you. You know, voice in the shadows and all. But you’re kind of cool. And I like your hair.”
He grins. “Thanks.”
I laugh again, this time nervously. I like your face, too.
“How old are you, anyway?” I ask.
“Fifteen. You?”
“Same. You’re not from here.”
He shrugs. “My mom lives in California, my dad is from here, so it’s easier to say I’m from all over. I don’t like to claim home to any one space.”
I frown because that’s exactly how I’d prefer to be. It beats the reality I’m facing now. I’m about to leave a home that I love. The only place I could ever think to call home. And I may have just found someone who understands enough to talk to about it.
“One day we won’t need our parents,” he says.
The words are few, but heavy. “What?”
“If it helps the pain, just remember that. Remember that one day, you’ll be on your own anyway, and there’s nothing they can do or say to hurt you. You’re living this life for you, not them.”
He’s right, but it doesn’t resolve how lost I already feel by the thought of moving and not being with my father. We were happy here. At least, I was happy here.
I want to ask the boy why he’s here. Why he seems angry. Where he lives in California. The questions are ready and I have so many of them. But I’m distracted as I track his movements. He’s moving closer until his legs are pressed against mine, his face so close, and all words become a jumble on the tip of my tongue.
“You’re kind of pretty,” he says. He’s examining me as if I’m an abstract piece of art.
I think I stop breathing, but just for a second, because there’s a commotion at the entrance to the roof. A bang of a door opening and crashing against the wall. It startles us apart.
My dad’s voice booms through the air, a hint of panic in his voice. “Pumpkin, are you up here?”
“I’m here,” I call out in a rush and stand, giving the boy one fleeting glance as I run. “Coming, Dad.”
My dad has his hand on the open rooftop door when I round the edge of the wall, and his expression is more concerned and curious than anything. He rarely gets angry, and he never gets angry at me. “How did you get up here?”
“Uh . . . I—the door was open.”
My dad wraps his arms around me the moment it sinks in that I’m safe. “I’m sorry, pumpkin. I know you’re upset, but you can’t be up here alone. Go home and get some sleep. We’ll talk about the arrangements in the morning, okay?”
The arrangements. My stomach churns, but I nod. I won’t let him see me cry. “Okay.”
He shuts the door behind us and we make our way down the steps. As my dad ushers me out of the venue and into a taxi, I look up to the roof one last time. The boy is there, wearing the same expression I left him with. Hope.
Lyric
Yes. My name is Lyric. As in song lyrics that played during my conception. Because my parents are—were—rock stars. I’m not complaining. I’ll take Lyric over any of the other asinine possibilities they came up with back then. One fallback: it’s not a name that goes unnoticed. Ever. I’m known as Lyric Cassidy, daughter of a rock icon and a pop goddess who had a swift affair in the nineties. Although my parents were never married and broke up years ago, they are still one of the most popular couples to have paved their way through music history. It makes my passion for the music industry . . . complicated.
Let me rephrase that.
My fate in the music industry is sealed. Nothing about that is complicated—therein lies the problem. Music is my everything. It’s the air I breathe. The beat I walk to. The blood in my veins. It’s what lulls me to sleep at night. What carries me through the storms of my life . . . like the one that just passed. Except I’m not a musician myself. Not professionally, anyway. I just want to be surrounded by music, however and whenever possible. But the limelight? Well, that’s not for me.
It was always a given I’d fall for a rock star. The bad-boy type with the raspy vocal who could cause a sold-out arena to swoon. I did. I fell for him, and he broke my heart when he fell into bed with my best friend. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. It wasn’t to anyone else. Unfortunately, at the time, I didn’t know the importance of shielding my heart as if my life depended on it. I know now. The affair that left me jobless, and with a gaping hole in my heart aching to be filled, was indeed filled with music. And then my heart was sealed, wrapped up in several layers of guitar strings, never to be infiltrated again. Have you ever tried flicking a guitar string? Those fuckers are strong.
The touring company I work for was made aware of my situation before I told them I wanted a new assignment. They had something ready for me out of pure coincidence, I’m sure. The job was mine if I wanted it, and I didn’t hesitate for a second. It wasn’t until they sent the contract over and I saw who I would be working for that I thought to rescind my acceptance. In the end, I signed, desperate to leave my situation in Seattle. And just like that, the job was mine, no interview needed.
I’ve never been on an interview. Not for a lack of trying. Jobs get handed to me as if there’s a payoff somewhere out there. It’s possible there is a payoff, but I’ll never know for sure. I wouldn’t put it past my mother. Ever since her music career slowed down, she’s tried everything to crawl back into my life as if she can control my fate. As if she knows me at all. I haven’t seen Destiny Lane in years. Spoken to her, yes, but as infrequently as possible. I don’t want anything she has to offer. She had her chance to be a mother when it mattered, but her music career always came first. My father, Mitch Cassidy, on the other hand—he’s still got it. Still hot on the music scene. Still touring internationally. Still pressuring me to “use my gifts,” as he calls them.
Not going to happen.
Less than an hour ago, my plane landed in San Diego. Now my driver, Elmer—like the glue—is waiting for me at the curb to take my bags. I take the bottled water from the holder and guzzle down half of it before finally relaxing into my seat.
“Are we headed to the office or the hotel?” I ask.
Between the flurry of activity since the moment I signed the contract and making a valiant effort to stay off social media, I’ve had no time to think straight.
Elmer’s eyes flicker to mine in the rearview mirror. He must deal with uppity celebs all day because he looks surprised I’m acknowledging his existence. “The office for your two o’clock, Miss Cassidy.”
“Thank you, Elmer.”
His eyes return to the road, and I turn my head toward the window. The always-present flutter of tension expands and contracts in my chest, awkwardly tormenting me. Formalities are not my thing, though I always seem to be surrounded by them. It’s the air of my parents that never seems to leave me; others think they need to treat me delicately, as if I’m precious glass. It’s annoying, but I’ve given up correcting people to salvage whatever is left of my sanity.
We approach the all-brick exterior of Perform Live, the artist management company where I’ve worked since I started as assistant to the assistant office manager when I was fifteen years old. The moment I turned eighteen, the management team sent me to work in their Seattle office. From there, they started sending me out on tour to manage the merchandise. I got quite good with money and worked closely with the tour managers and road managers for years. Now I do what they do. And I’m damn good at it.
My new position is road manager for Wolf Chapman, rock’s ultimate bad boy and hottest solo act out there at the moment. I’ve seen his type before. Drugs. Sex. Rock ’n’ roll. It’s not just a saying. It’s a way of life, and it’s real. He won’t last. He got too hot too soon, which, in my experience, only means he’ll fall hard when he stumbles. Chances are he won’t get up, at least not back up to the top of the charts where he currently stands. I take this as a challenge—I love a good challenge. So I’m just here to do my job, even though everything about Wolf screams for me to run.
Talent.
Sex appeal.
Rocker hair.
Drop dead gorgeous smile.
Body of a seasoned athlete.
Abs made of steel.
Totally not my type. At least it shouldn’t be. And all of that comes in one pretty little package signed “Ego.” The last thing I need is to be in the presence of another rock star with a massive hard-on for himself.
As I walk through the company’s main doors and toward the elevator, a familiar feeling of excitement begins to bubble up in my chest. “Lyric, is that you?” A tan blonde with long legs and a Wolf shirt tucked into her knee length skirt enters through the opposite entrance and beelines it toward me.
How do I know this chick?
She’s inches from my face when it dawns on me. I smirk before throwing my hands out in surprise. “Terese. No shit. You work here?” We do the girlie thing and squeal, hug, and rock from side-to-side before letting each other go.
I know Terese from when Tony, my asshole ex, booked a three-month run in the Vegas hotel where she worked. We spent all our free time together because the ex, of course, was too busy to spend time with me.
“I do,” she says. “Moved from Vegas last April and haven’t looked back. Please tell me you’ll be in promotions with me. Can you imagine how much fun we’ll have?”
I shake my head, still beaming. “Road manager for Wolf.”
Her eyes are bright blue and sparkling from the stream of sunlight, and they widen in surprise. “Oh, now I’m jealous. What I would give to be on that tour bus . . .” A sigh wafts into the air as she trails off into dream land.
I roll my eyes quickly so she can’t see the annoyance and shrug. “Well, I doubt I’ll be on his tour bus, but the tour should be fun. We’ve got a show in San Diego before we leave. You working that one? If not, you should hang with me.”
Terese lights up again. “I’m not working that night. Count me in. How long until you take off?”
Without the schedule in front of me it’s hard to remember the details, but I have an idea. “Two weeks. I’m joining the team late. I guess the last manager didn’t mesh well with Wolf.”
