Rock Rhapsody

by Rachel Cross

  Rachel Cross, author of Rock Her and Rock Him

  Avon, Massachusetts

  This edition published by

  Crimson Romance

  an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

  10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

  Blue Ash, Ohio 45242

  www.crimsonromance.com

  Copyright © 2014 by Rachel Cross.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 10: 1-4405-7487-1

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7487-0

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-7488-X

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7488-7

  Cover art © 123rf.com

  For Anna, Anne, Kirsten, Kristen, Steff, and John, and my editor, Julie Sturgeon.

  Acknowledgments

  Acknowledgments: Chris, my inspiration. Monica Tillery, Kai, Jenny, Kathy and Mark, thanks for keeping it real. Judy M. and Cheree, thank you for taking care of vital parts of my life while I wrote. Finally, heartfelt thanks to my Crimson Romance team, especially Tara Gelsomino.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter One

  An odd snapping sensation and a rush of slick heat accompanied his final thrust. A thrust that seated him balls deep in disaster. Shane Marx retracted his hips, removed his hands from the smooth, firm ass and took two stumbling steps away from the woman on her hands and knees on the edge of the bed. Too late. He stared down in horror at the remnants of the condom, still attached at the base, a wide tear splitting the tip.

  Motherfucker.

  The woman's body trembled from the effects of his exertions.

  His heart rate ratcheted up. “Uh.” He racked his brain for a name. Nope. Nothing. Given how swiftly things proceeded at the club, he wasn't sure they'd exchanged that information. She knew who he was, and after thirty minutes of foreplay in the guise of dancing, she'd been eager to get him back to her place.

  “We may have a problem,” he said.

  The woman belly flopped onto floral sheets, then rolled over with a satisfied groan. She looked at him, her face slack with the remnants of pleasure and fatigue, mascara smeared almost to her cheeks. She pushed tangled blonde hair off her damp face. “What?”

  Following his gaze she spotted the ruined condom and her eyes widened. Her hand investigated the apex of her thighs and she giggled.

  He clenched his teeth.

  “Oh.” Her smile was coy. “You don't have to worry. I'm clean.”

  “Yeah? That's good. Me too.” But that wasn't his greatest concern, and from the calculating gleam in her eye, she knew it.

  He pressed his palm to his forehead as fears of paternity suits, child-custody hearings, and tabloid photos throbbed to life.

  What were the odds? Slim to maybe? He had never, ever had a condom failure. TruAchord would have been dead on arrival if he or any of his boy-band mates had been hit with a paternity suit back in the day. Years later he was still neurotic about using them.

  Shane backed up until he was in the attached bathroom. He peeled off and flushed the condom. “Are you on the pill or anything?” he called out. When he came back into the room she was kneeling on the bed, holding up her iPhone to take a picture of him. He covered himself with both hands, took two strides forward, and wrested the phone from her grasp. He flipped through her photos, deleting the fuzzy one she'd taken as his heart thundered in his chest.

  “Hey!”

  He glared at her. “So not cool.”

  His agent would have a seizure if more naked photos emerged. The one some twit sent out last month had been bad enough. “Good God, Shane! Who wants to see a full frontal of you sleeping? At least the quarterbacks and politicians have the decency to get photos of their erections. Don't get me wrong, we should count ourselves lucky you're a show-er and not a grower, but this is a disaster! I'm having a hell of a time passing this off as a Photoshop job.”

  Apparently there was such a thing as bad publicity, and that picture had killed his audition for a lead in the latest Sparks film. No matter. He was done being typecast as the guy with issues in all that chick-flick crap. Maybe that photo would put him in consideration for a grittier role, but two? Two photos would indicate he had a problem. He held her phone while he slipped on his jeans. He pocketed it, and then checked his pants for wallet, keys, and his phone. Two steps across matted beige carpeting took him to the doorway where he spared her a glance.

  She frowned at him from where she stood, naked beside the bed, one hand on a curvaceous hip, the other stroking through highlighted extensions. She spent way too much time in the tanning booth. The florescent light from the bathroom gave her skin a terracotta glow.

  Revulsion surged through him.

  “Are you on the pill or not?” he repeated.

  “No.”

  “Is there something you can take? You know, so there aren't any unwanted repercussions?”

  She shrugged. “Probably.”

  “Do you want me to set something up?” Should he offer her money or would that piss her off?

  “I'll take care of it,” she assured him, breaking eye contact.

  His gut clenched. There wasn't much he could do at four in the morning. Or anytime for that matter. It wasn't as though he could march her to the pharmacy or a doctor's office or wherever.

  Shane glanced around the room for clues to the woman's psyche. Neat, and decorated with some flair—though the bureau and nightstand screamed thrift store special. Poor, not slovenly.

  It was always the same. The initial thrill, diminishing interest as things progressed to the point of no return, and the emptiness and awkwardness after. Now fear had entered the equation.

  “Will you give me back my goddamn phone?” she said, extending a hand.

  Shane turned his back on her and hustled through the apartment. He pulled a wad of bills from his money clip and chucked them along with her phone in the vicinity of the stained sofa. He made his way down the stairs of the second story garden apartment and onto the street. He'd been so distracted by her head bobbing in his lap in the back seat of the taxi he hadn't the faintest idea where he was. His phone showed him standing smack in the middle of Brantley, eight miles and several worlds away from his Santa Monica neighborhood. He turned west and started his jog of shame home.

  Chapter Two

  Two weeks later Shane sat in his living room across from rock megastar Asher Lowe—one of his more incongruous friendships.

  “Fuck, man.” Asher shook his head. “There's gotta be something you can do. Go to her apartment and talk to her. Give her money. Something.”

  “I left her some money. A couple hundred. I'm playing the odds.” He ran a hand across his face.

  Asher stared at him in disbelief. “Dude, that's a bad bet.”

  “Seriously, what are the chances? One night, one busted condom. I've looked it up. It's unlikely.”

  Asher studied him. “Take my word on this. It's a tough
thing to share a child with a stranger, and we both know more than most people about lousy parents. Step up and talk her into taking measures.”

  “Asher, I don't know her name.”

  “Yeah. About that . . .”

  Shane stared at his friend and gave a short laugh. “This outta be good. A lecture on fidelity from the biggest man-whore on the planet?”

  “Former man-whore,” Asher retorted. “Since reformed. You might consider it, you know. Sleeping with someone regularly. Having a real relationship, with someone not in the industry.”

  “God. There's no one more pious than a reformed sinner.”

  “I had more than my share of good times, back in the day, but this thing with Maddy, well, it's on another level,” Asher said.

  “I suck at monogamy. Seriously suck at it. I can't imagine choosing to be with one person long term and continually saying no to the newest thrill.”

  “Thrill?”

  “Yeah.” Shane shifted in his chair. “You know how it is when you first meet someone you want to fuck? The excitement? It feels like gearing up to hit the stage, until after . . .”

  Shane felt Asher's eyes on him as he examined his uneaten roast beef sandwich. Asher must understand this cycle he was in—had been in as long as he could remember. But then, unlike Shane, Asher's past was littered with bouts of monogamy and fidelity, even before he fell for Maddy.

  When he looked up, Asher was still observing him, his brilliant hazel eyes lit with keen intelligence and compassion.

  “It wasn't a thrill . . . not like you describe. Sex was never an urge I had regrets about. Sure, there were some needy women, but I learned how to deal with them without alienating them—diplomacy and tact go a long way, although there are always the clingers—and I learned to spot the unbalanced from fifty feet. Most of them knew the drill. Some women I enjoyed for more than sex—women I had relationships with. But not the whacked-across-the-head-with-a-two-by-four experience. Not until Maddy. Speaking of, I've got to get back to Vegas.” He looked at his phone. “Jet's fueled up. Can you run me over to the airport?” Asher stood. “Go see the girl. Find out where she's at.”

  Shane also stood and dangled his keys. Screw that. He was sick of both being used and using women to work out something—fill some hole. The very last thing he was going to do was beg Ms. Nameless to do the right thing. Besides, there was no way she could be pregnant after that one time.

  Fucking condom.

  A few hours after he dropped Asher at the airport and had returned to his couch, his phone rang. He used the remote to pause Tristan Brennan's latest film and stared at the number on the screen.

  Ike Peters, super-agent. His stomach lurched.

  “Hey, man,” Shane answered with studied casualness. As if he hadn't been waiting for this call for weeks.

  “Shane, you're a real pain in my ass.”

  Shane closed his eyes and did a fist pump. “What else is new?”

  Get to the point.

  But it paid to play the game. Even with his own agent he locked down his excitement.

  “I've got a line in to get you that audition.”

  Shane's heart leapt into his throat with a combination of joy and panic.

  “God! Thank you,” he breathed reverently, not sure if he was actually thanking God or his agent who thought he was God.

  “They're having issues getting funding of course, and it doesn't pay shit. You'll be working for scale,” he moaned. “I'd have been much happier if you’d done the Sparks film, but you blew that. The Brennan picture will shoot some locally, some in Canada. Auditions are still a few months away—maybe the end of the year but spring more likely. I had to beg to get this done for you—let me tell you, after the shenanigans on your last picture, they're leery. Everyone is leery. You caused crisis after crisis because you couldn't keep your dick in your pants. I don't have any other clients like you. Fucking the co-star? And the special effects assistant? And a local? Do you have a death wish? If you ever do get a role again, they'll put it in your contract that you can't fuck co-stars or crew. They ain't groupies for your boy band, you know. This is a business, son.”

  Shane held his breath, fists clenched. It wasn't his fault the special effects chick had gone psycho. How was he to know she'd turn a one-night stand into a fantasy relationship and then try to sabotage the film during production?

  “Are you there?”

  “Yes,” he replied softly.

  “Well,” the man huffed out. “You didn't tell me the character was a hockey player. Jesus, Shane, have you read the fuckin' script? Do you know how to ice skate?

  “Uh,” he mumbled. How hard could it be? He was in great shape. A few lessons—he'd never had a problem picking up dance moves with TruAchord.

  “Well you do now. That skating clause was a deal breaker, so I told them you were freakin' Brian Boitano. . .”

  “Isn't he a figure skater?”

  “Who cares? The important thing is you need to know how to fuckin' skate. And you don't. So you better fuckin' learn.”

  Shane was already reaching for his laptop, ready to search for ice skating coaches.

  “And on the down low, so don't even think about going through regular channels for that. Leave it to me. We can't have word getting out that you're taking lessons, for Chrissake.”

  “Just to brush up,” he said feebly, shutting his laptop.

  “Fuckin' Boitano doesn't need to brush up! I'll take care of it. Clear your schedule,” he ordered. “Now here's what you are gonna do for me . . .”

  • • •

  Amelia Astor closed her eyes and tilted her face to the sun.

  “Hey, Amy.”

  She grinned.

  Kyle Reed had the world's sexiest voice—a husky baritone that was a perfect match for his chiseled features and sculpted body. After years of clinches, embraces, throws, and spins, she was as familiar with his body as her own.

  People turned to stare at him. Fewer noticed here in LA than in other places in the world they had traveled together where their matched blonde heads stood out, but they were used to stares. Did they suspect brother and sister? They shared light blue eyes, too—though his were shot with glass-green. They shared the same Slavic cheekbones. Maybe they shared a common ancestry, other than the obvious.

  She put her latte on the glass-top, wrought iron table, and stood to give him a full-body hug, her hands gripping his back muscles, reveling in his familiar smell. He gave her a chaste kiss on the lips.

  “Missed you,” she said. The little house they shared with another Enchanted skater, Allyson, had seemed terribly empty during his absence. Cleaner of course—Kyle wasn't known for his housekeeping skills—but far too quiet.

  “Me too, babe.”

  “Mmmm. What is that? Cinnamon something?” He seated himself across from her.

  “Yeah.” She pushed her cup toward him.

  “Nah. I'll get a coffee in a minute. Any word?”

  “Not yet,” she said, worrying her lower lip with her teeth. “I'm sure I'll hear from them soon. Enchanted is scheduled to go back on tour . . . mid-September, right?”

  His expression was sober, his gaze probing. “Rehearsals start here in August.”

  Nine weeks away. All of the principals had received offer letters last week, everyone but her. Tears filled her eyes and she blinked them away. After seven years of playing the lead princess in the Enchanted Ice show, they were going to give her the boot. She wasn't ready, damn it. She would decide when her skating career was over, not the Enchanted management. Control was the one thing she had in the life she'd made for herself after a youth dictated by parents and coaches. She would put off real life one more year. She just had to find a way back in.

  “How was home?”

  He shrugged and looked away.

  Amy leaned forward and gripped his fisted hand.

  He managed a half smile and threaded his fingers through hers.

  “Fuck 'em,” she advised.


  He shook his head, expression glum. “Why can't I follow your lead and cut them off?”

  She squeezed his wide palm and let go. “Maybe because you have siblings. It must be a stronger bond than I had with only my parents in the picture. I've said it before—”

  “I know, Amy, 'people who make us feel bad about things that bring us joy don't love us in a healthy way,'“ he mimicked her high voice.

  She laughed. “Right. Is it the college thing or the ‘he must be gay thing'?”

  “The college thing. They've given me all kinds of permission to come out to them.”

  She giggled. “I'm sorry, but it's so funny.”

  “I know, right? I mean, they're my parents, they're supposed to know me. I couldn’t give a good goddamn if anyone thinks I'm gay, but it comes up every time I'm home. I tell them . . . I'm not gay! I get why, there are plenty of gay dudes figure skating. Some of the best. So what if I play a prince? I love it. But gay guys never hit on me—they know I'm straight, while my own parents are freakin' clueless. I've fucked half the women in LA, but I must be closeted.”

  “About that—”

  “Don't start,” he warned. “I'm not in the mood to be slut-shamed.”

  She met his gaze until he couldn't hold hers any longer.

  “Kyle, I know it used to be fun—”

  “It still is,” he insisted. “Amy, spare me the lectures. I've had ten days of my mom wringing her hands over her son's miserable excuse for a life. My siblings all have master's degrees or law degrees. And apparently, I'm not just the black sheep, I'm the closeted black sheep.”

  “I'm sorry. You know I love you, but I don't think an infinite parade of women—”

  He held up a hand, the look in his eyes warning her not to go there. “Love you too, Amy. Let me get a coffee. You want anything?”

  She should, she'd barely managed more than a salad yesterday. The stress of waiting for that letter—for her future—had tied her stomach in knots. And she would not gain an ounce; in fact, if she lost, it might help take some of the strain off her injured hip. Amy shook her head and watched Kyle go—her gaze not the only one following his retreating figure, judging by the craned necks on the patio.