by Rylee Swann
Table of Contents
TITLE PAGE
BOOK DESCRIPTION
FREE BOOK OFFER
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 TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
EPILOGUE
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
A SNEAK PEEK
MORE BY THE 1203 STORIES AUTHORS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT AND DISCLAIMER
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
BOOK DESCRIPTION
FREE BOOK OFFER
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 TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
EPILOGUE
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
A SNEAK PEEK
MORE BY THE 1203 STORIES AUTHORS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT AND DISCLAIMER
Rock ‘n’ Roll Rebel
Rylee Swann
BOOK DESCRIPTION
I want more and I want it fast. Not the drugs or rock and roll... the other one.
Raven
First on the agenda? Losing the V-Card.
I'm about to turn eighteen and as the daughter of a world-famous rock star and a billionaire artist, that means I'm already behind.
Best candidate? Lobo, the manwh*re from the local MC.
Word on the street is that he knows how to show a woman a good time.
So why can't I stop thinking of my best friend?
Fringe
Raven Dawn's eighteenth birthday plans made me realize I'm crazy in love with her.
But if I risk our friendship, I'll lose the only good thing in my life.
I'll kill that SOB Lobo if he even looks at her the wrong way,
much less lays a single finger on her.
Raven is mine forever. I just have to find a way to show her that,
before it's too late.
***Rock 'n' Roll Rebel is a Kindle-melting novel with steamy scenes and an HEA you'll love. Don't miss it - one-click NOW!***
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CHAPTER ONE
Raven Dawn
Rebel Rebel… You’ve got your mother in a whirl.
David Bowie died today and my mother is spending the day in bed, crying.
My mother is famous, like, really famous. She’s Rachel St. Claire, the biggest female rock and roll star on the planet. Bigger than Gaga. And David Bowie was her inspiration. She’s inconsolable.
My dad is spending the day in bed with her. It’s possible he’s crying right along with her. When the love of his life is in pain, that tends to affect him.
He’s famous, too. He’s an artist—a painter—and his works sell for millions. He also published a couple of diaries that shot up the New York Times Best Seller list and stayed there. A lot of people have heard of Brandon Fahr, even if they’re not into art. His diaries, Icarus Rising and Icarus Ascendant, had a lot of explicit sex so the mommy porn lovers ate them up. They’re still waiting for Icarus Falling. They can keep waiting. I don’t think he’ll ever write it.
I’m their daughter, the seventeen-year-old rebellious hellion, Raven Dawn Fahr.
Seventeen and full of raging hormones. That’s what Mom says every time I say or do something that annoys her—It’s just the hormones, sweetie. She’s one to talk. When she was my age, she was already having regular sex. With her manager. Ewww. I think he’s in jail now. Dad once beat the snot out of him. I wish I could have seen that but I wasn’t born yet.
Anyway, back to me. I’m turning eighteen in a month and I’ve decided that’s when I’m going to lose it.
You know.
Pop my cherry.
Do the wild thang.
Go all the way.
I’m going to lose my virginity.
I already have the guy picked out. Lobo. That’s what he calls himself. Easy on the eyes but not marriage or even boyfriend material. If I’m being honest, he’s an ass but I’ve heard he’s good in bed. I don’t want my first time to be, like, a total disaster. Like Mom’s was.
So, anyway, it’s that stupid time between breakfast and lunch and here I am foraging for something to eat in the pantry because Mom can’t get her ass out of bed. Yeah, sure, it’s sad and all that David Bowie died. I mean, I grew up on his music and he was like a genius, not to mention super hot and sexy, but I still gotta eat.
I look down at the buzzing cell phone in my hand as I make my way to the fridge. It’s a text from one of my best friends, Divine. Holly is her real name. She plays a lot, and I mean a lot, of Candy Crush so that’s what my friends and I call her. Some obnoxious jerks even say it all drawn out like in the game.
Reading the text, I see that my food situation has been solved.
Divine: Meet me for lunch? Usual place.
Me: You ditched school?
Divine: So did you.
Me: Mom said I could cuz Bowie died.
Divine: My mom doesn’t give two shits what I do. LOL Meet me!
I text back in a minute and head to my room to put on a sweater. It’s January in Canada, which means it’s freaking freezing. Canada, of all places. I’ve been around the world twice with my mom on tour, seen it all, and hate coming back here. Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against Canadians, they’re really nice. Sweet, sometimes too sweet. But it’s so please-put-me-out-of-my-misery boring here that I could scream. My parents aren’t even Canadian. They’re American. Mom has some family back in the States but they visit so often it’s like they live here. And, Dad is the last of his line. They got tired of my constant pestering about why we don’t live in New York—that’s where all the action and excitement is—and forbid me to ever bring it up again. Forbid. Like, serious
ly?
I’d really gone past the point of patience with them on that one.
Whatever, I make do.
As soon as I’m able, I’m outta here. But first things first. Lunch with Divine.
Sneaking past my parents’ bedroom, I make it almost to the front door when I hear theirs open. Damn, now I’m going to have to have a conversation with one of them. If it was warm, I could just run out the door but I have to stop to tug on my winter boots and get my coat. Rolling my eyes, I try to hurry.
“Raven, where are you going?” It’s my mom, her voice sounding clogged and sniffly. Damn.
“Out.” She sighs but I don’t look up from where I’m tying my boot laces.
“Where out?”
“Just out. I’ll be back later.”
“Raven, answer me, please.”
That gets my emotions fired up and I snap at her. “I told you to call me Dawn!”
Mom’s in a bad mood so I know this isn’t going to fly. I brace for the impending fight.
“Your name, young lady, is Raven Dawn Fahr. If you want your friends to use your middle name, that’s fine, but I—”
“Yeah, right.” I roll my eyes and snort. “Like this family is so hung up on using the right name. Dad calls you St. Claire and you call him Icarus.”
Before she can respond, Dad’s voice cuts in. “Raven, give your mom a break. It’s a rough day.”
He’s come up behind her wearing only his pajama bottoms. Seeing his chiseled bare chest is weird. If we’re at the beach, I don’t mind, but at home I don’t want to see my dad half naked. I don’t answer and he continues.
“Be home in time for dinner. Everyone is coming over.” Dad holds my coat for me and I shrug into it. Sighing dramatically, I start to zip up but then think better of it. I’ll sweat in the elevator on the way to the lobby.
“We’re having a memorial. Please don’t be late,” Mom says.
I roll my eyes and wave a hand at them as I make my escape. They both sigh loudly as I close the door behind me.
I honestly don’t know why I can be such a bitch. I love my parents. I do. They just sometimes get on my nerves.
Our favorite hangout is Lucifer’s and Divine is already there when I arrive. It’s a seedy biker bar with great food where a bunch of the kids with rich parents hang out, trying to be rebels. I don’t associate with them. They’re posers, while I’m really living the life.
Most of the others are townie kids, like Divine. They don’t card here, which I think has something to do with the motorcycle club that practically owns the place, Lucifer’s Angels. The cops are probably afraid to mess with them, I’ve never seen or heard about the place being raided. The LAs are a nasty, fun bunch of jerks. Lobo is a member and I look around for him as I head to Divine’s table. I’m kinda glad when I don’t spot him. I’m not in the mood for his shit right now.
“I ordered for you,” Divine says as I sit down.
“Burger, all the fixings, and fries?”
“Of course. You’re so damn skinny, I hate you!”
We both laugh.
Divine isn’t fat, she’s voluptuous. Big tits, wide hips, and lips that have been wrapped around more than a couple of the cocks that frequent this place. She says she loves doing it but I sometimes wonder if that’s the truth. She doesn’t have a strong family unit like I do. Her mom’s an addict and her dad’s a player who’s hardly ever home. She’s older—twenty—so she deals with it, says it’s better than having to pay her own rent for some crap apartment. She got left back a couple of times, but she’s smart. Too smart for school, I think. It’s her asshole parents that distract her from studying. She’d have already graduated otherwise, which is how we found ourselves in the same classes.
I cock my head at her. “But you’re the blonde-haired, blue-eyed wonder child.”
“Dirty blonde.” She always corrects me when I say she has blonde hair and it makes me smile.
One of the LAs passes our table and sets down two bottles of beer with a “Ladies…” After a wink and a smile, he continues on his way.
I love this place.
We both chug about a third of the beer and I frown as my cell phone buzzes. What now?
I look down at it and roll my eyes.
“Who is it?” Divine leans over to look.
“Dean.” I sigh. “Probably wants to give me shit about something.”
Dean’s my older half brother on my dad’s side. We grew up together and now he’s some hotshot TV doctor. Everyone thinks he’s such hot shit but it’s only a Canadian production.
Dean: You coming home for dinner?
Me: I guess.
“What’s he want?” Divine already has her dreamy-eyed expression on. She and about a million other girls and probably a fair share of boys have a crush on Dean.
I shrug and look at his next text.
Dean: No guessing. Be there. For Mom. The whole family will be there.
Rolling my eyes, I type in I guess again, just to piss him off.
“He’s asking if I’ll be home for dinner. Mom’s holding a memorial and stuff.”
“Oh, yeah, right. Sucks about Bowie.”
“Yeah, bigtime.” My tone is a little more heartfelt than I intended.
Divine looks up at me and raises a brow. “Aww, Dawn, you’re mourning him, too. I’m so sorry. Did you ever meet him?”
I shake my head. “Wish I had.”
Of course I’m mourning him, but I gotta play the don’t-give-a-crap-about-anything teenage rebel, right? Isn’t that my current role in life?
Dean: Come on. Stop screwing around.
I laugh as I read that and text back: I’ll be there.
***
When I arrive home, my entire family is already here. I’m really only related to three of them. That’s what happens when you’re the daughter of famous parents. Everyone becomes an uncle or an aunt. For the most part, I don’t mind. These are some of the coolest people on the planet. Mom’s entourage, singer-songwriters, dancers, personal assistants.
Some of the other kids at school are jealous of what to me is my normal life. When they say shit about it, I always tell them they wouldn’t like it if the paparazzi were always on their asses like they are on mine. I’m forever dodging them on my way to Lucifer’s. Whatever, I make it work.
“Raven, there you are, dear!”
“Hi, Uncle Guy.”
He envelops me in a huge bearhug and I endure it. I’ve learned that struggling or even wriggling is useless. Guy will hug until he’s done and that’s all there is to it. He’s Mom’s personal assistant and he hooked up with Dad’s personal assistant, Wayne, around the time Mom and Dad met. Uncle Wayne didn’t even know he was gay until he met Uncle Guy. I don’t know why I find that hilarious. I think I have Dad’s perverse sense of humor.
When Uncle Guy finally releases me, I stalk the rest of the way into the penthouse. It’s a huge apartment on the top floor of a luxury building that caters to the rich and famous. Mom and Dad moved in here before they even tied the knot. It’s where life for them started. It wasn’t always a penthouse. They made extensive renovations through the years, buying up the other apartments, and now it takes up the entire top floor.
With the exception of a couple of Mom’s backup dancers, everyone is present and accounted for. At least I wasn’t the last to arrive, and I hope that’ll score me some points.
I spot Mom crying her eyes out on Milo’s shoulder. He’s a non-related uncle, too, and one of Mom’s songwriters. He and Uncle David are two of the most talented singer-songwriters in the business today. I’m endlessly jealous every time I hear a new riff of theirs.
They’re also both stupid sexy and have British accents. I suppose, if I have to admit it, I’ve been crushing on both of them for years. I know better, though. They’re both in their thirties and big-time hound dogs. They’ve probably fucked most of Mom’s band. I even sometimes wonder about Mom. Before she met Dad, I mean.
I try t
o settle quietly into a chair in the corner of the living room but the sudden onslaught of hellos from every direction makes me grit my teeth. I just don’t want to be bothered. Everyone grieves in their own way, and this is so not mine. I’d much prefer to be left alone and not have to talk to anyone about it. Upon closer examination, I find that it’s a regular cryfest. This is going to be a hell of a long night.
Dinner is a catered affair with fancy dishes and appetizers set out on the huge dining room table. We all eat and cry and tell stories about Bowie. It’s a really fucked up night. The stories are amazing and I soak them all in, learning even more about the granddaddies of rock and roll. I mean, I knew about the rumors of David Bowie and Mick Jagger sleeping together, but it makes the stories so much more real and tangible when someone I know says he heard it from so and so. Thirdhand information is so much better than an Internet article.
Many of the stories are raunchy and funny as hell but I’ve had about enough of it all—it’s way past dinnertime, when will everyone just go home?—when Mom gets up and moves to the center of the room. She’s holding a crystal flute of champagne. I know its contents contain Cristal. Mom prefers it over Dom. Once the others spot her standing there, they get quiet and wait for her to speak.
She puts on a brave smile and looks around at her friends and family. “We lost a legend today, and my personal hero. The world as we know it will never be the same.” Her voice cracks but she perseveres and raises her glass. Everyone does the same. “Thank you all for coming here so we could help each other get through this.” Her voice breaks this time and she takes a moment to compose herself. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to have a little sing-along.” She looks to Uncle David and Uncle Milo. “Did you bring your guitars?”
They both get up and come back seconds later, guitars in hand. Mom offers them a wan smile, her eyes glistening with tears, and even in her agony she is beautiful. I’ve been told on many occasions that I look just like her with my long, curly flame-red hair and big emerald eyes. If that makes me beautiful, too, so be it. I can take a compliment.
Dad stands and goes to her, putting his arm around her shoulders. David and Milo need no further encouragement and start playing. I recognize the tune immediately. It’s David Bowie’s, “Heroes,” a personal favorite of many in attendance, including me.
