by Daisy Allen
ROCK ME
A ROCK CHAMBER BOYS NOVEL
~*~
Written by
Daisy Allen
Copyright © 2018 Daisy Allen
Play Me: A Rock Chamber Boys Novel
By Daisy Allen
All rights reserved.
This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. All characters and storylines are the properties of the author and your support and respect is appreciated.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
This book is dedicated to the
utterly magical healing properties of music.
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THR Ê
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 EIGHTTEEN
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
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
EPILOGUE
Suggested Listening List (inspired by Rock Me)
About the Author
All Books by Daisy Allen
PROLOGUE
It’s silent.
Totally, completely, silent.
And dark.
So dark, the gentle green glow of light from the exit signs in the far-off distance provides the only relief for the eyes.
Something to focus on, other than the abyss.
Something to focus on, other than the burn of the chemicals flooding into each and every one of my cells, signaling that it’s almost time.
Adrenalin.
It’s fight or flight.
Fight.
Every fucking time, I choose fight.
Fight for my right to be here, right here, and nowhere else in the world in this exact moment in time.
It’s time.
And right on cue, our world explodes into life.
Pure, white bright light. Cleansing everything and everyone of all that came before it.
Nothing exists except what is happening now. It is the new age.
Then, as suddenly as it appears, light recedes into nothing.
And it’s dark again.
We wait, until the cheers die down and it’s silent again.
A single spotlight appears and shines just on me, and I take one long, slow breath.
And I count it in.
One. Two. Three. Four.
It’s fucking on, bitches.
I stomp my foot and clap my hands to the beat in my head.
That unmistakable, iconic, rock of all rock beats.
Queen’s We Will Rock You.
Dum Dum Da. Dum Dum Da.
My bandmates join in on the second loop, from their spots around the stage, still cloaked in darkness.
Dum Dum Da. Dum Dum Da.
And finally, I pull my bow over my cello strings, the driving, thumping, almost repetitive melody dancing over the beat of the stomps and claps.
I can’t help the smile twitching at the corners of my mouth as I hear the crowd stomp along, their cheers filling in all the pockets of silence that was just blanketing us all.
A second cello joins me for the second stanza.
“You beautiful bitch, Sebastian,” I think, as my I picture my bandmate’s fingers going into overdrive over the fingerplate.
It replaces my line and I jump a third below, drawing the harmony out from the strings with my bow, having a play with the arrangement.
Never the same, it’s never the fucking same.
Just the way we like it.
I’ll never get tired of how our cellos fit like perfectly laid out pieces of a music puzzle.
I count the bars in my head, two more until the chorus.
There’s suddenly the taste of metal in my mouth, blood, my teeth digging hard into my lip without me realizing it. Out of pure anticipation.
I’ve been waiting for this moment a fucking long time.
We’ve been saving this for a special performance, and this is it.
The chorus.
The single spotlight surrounding me suddenly blasts into a thousand, splintered light dancing over every inch of the stage, the crowd, the walls, the ceiling, and every fucking voice in the place raises in unison, in song. “WE WILL, WE WILL ROCK YOU!”
“Sing iiiiiiittt,” I yell into the microphone, my voice echoing off the walls.
And they obey, as the rest of my band joins in with their violin and viola, rocking out every chord as Queen intended.
“What are we gonna do?” I hear Sebastian scream into his mic, and right on time, the crown joins in again, “WE WILL, WE WILL ROCK YOU!!”
My fingers burn as they move over the cello, each note ingrained in their cells from hours of practice, as my other arm moves the bow back and forth, the torn blonde horse hairs whipping back and forth, shining like spun gold against the light. The sound fills me from the floor up, the vibrations from the sound system like heart beats against my shoes.
Giving me life.
There’s a break in the cello part, the perfect moment to make my move. Sebastian glances over to me and I flash him a grin and he nods and gives me a wink.
It’s on. The solo is mine. We never really know who’s going to take it until we’re on stage. Solo performance is more than planning. It’s destined. You don’t know your number is up until you’re standing on stage and it calls to you.
I step forward and take my place center stage, tip my head back, taking it all in, and lose myself in the chaos.
I was born for this.
I would die for this.
CHAPTER ONE
Jez
The applause is so loud, I can barely hear the sound of the stage hand’s voice as he’s yelling directions to us.
“Stage left, stage left!” I think he’s saying as we’re ushered backstage.
“Stay here guys,” someone tells us, gesturing to an empty spot right in the wings. “Your category’s up next.”
“Fuck!” Sebastian says, as we’re all pushed together in a tight circle.
“Shush! Quiet, and no swearing!” Someone with a clipboard reprimands him.
“Oh shit, I’m so fucking sorry.” Sebastian whispers back, covering his mouth.
“Nice one.” I roll my eyes at him.
He frowns and punches me on the shoulder. “Leave me alone, I’m nervous.”
I don’t blame him. You never get used to this. Waiting to
hear, waiting to hear if we’ve won it. Won a goddamn freaking Grammy. But this one… this one’s special. Song of the year. This one’s an original, and borne from nothing but our hearts and souls. This is the one we’ve all been waiting for.
I look down, only just realizing we’ve managed to clasp each other’s hands. I squeeze whoever’s hand I’m holding tight, and Marius yelps a little, and looks at me. He looks even more nervous than Sebastian does.
“Good luck, guys,” I whisper to my band brothers.
“Break a leg.”
“Break all the fucking legs,” Sebastian rasps.
The hubbub around us never stops, but for a moment, it’s just the four of us, 13 years old, practicing in Brad’s parents’ basement, wondering if anyone would ever hear a thing we played.
And now…
“The Grammy, for best song goes to Forest Lullaby by The Rock Chamber Boys.”
For a moment. It’s completely silent again. And then Marius screams in my ear and we all run onto the stage. The roar from the crowd embeds itself into my brain and I look out into the ocean of cheering faces, dizzy. Someone puts an award into my hand and everything moves as if in slow motion. I see Sebastian grab the microphone and he’s blubbering into it, listing off names.
And everything, for a single moment makes sense.
The quiet.
Before the deluge.
CHAPTER TWO
Noémie
“Come on, Noémie. I’ll pay yo-…” I cover my ears before my boss can finish the sentence. Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it.
“No. Abso-fucking-lutely not in a million years. Not even if there were an infinite number of universes. In none of them am I going to work a single extra second tonight.”
“Well, in an infinit-“
“No!” I hold up both hands in front of my face. “Stop. I don’t want to hear the science behind it. I don’t want to hear you beg. I especially don’t want to hear how much you’ll pay me to do it, because I don’t want to know. These hands, have shoveled enough lentils for the week. The only sound I want to hear in the next 15 seconds, is me, throwing my apron in the basket, and the little ding-a-ling of the bell as the door closes behind me.” I undo the strings of my apron and throw it into the laundry basket, liberate my hair from the hairnet, and throw my bag over my shoulder, practically running toward the door.
“But-“ is the last sound I hear before I walk out the door.
It’s cold out. Just the way I like it. I take a long, deep breath, trying to empty the grease steam clinging to the inside of my lungs.
I check my watch. One a.m. Seriously? It is literally a different day since I started work at eight this morning? One whole day has passed and I’m still no closer to becoming a billionaire with an entire house just for my shoes. I look down at the oil splattered shoes I do have and for just one tiny split second, consider going back to work for a few more hours, just so I can afford a new pair. My phone buzzes and distracts me from the fact that I am basically considering a self-lobotomy. Who the hell is calling me at this time?
I try to ignore it as I pull the hood tighter around my face and start the twelve block walk home, hoping my feet will just go numb from the pain soon.
Bzzzzz, bzzzzzz! The phone insists. It occurs to me it may actually be something important, and I sigh, pulling the phone from my bag’s outer pocket.
My roommate’s face complete with snap chat bunny ears flashes on the screen, smiling at me. I roll my eyes and press the accept button.
“What do you want, Paige?”
“WHERE ARE YOU?” she yells, and the background noise is so loud I wonder if she can even hear my reply.
“I’m going home, just finished work,” I tell her, already knowing what’s coming.
“NO! I’m just around the corner! At Gators, come join me! It’s crazy in here right now! Everyone is here.”
Yeah, every reason not to go. People. Lots and lots of people. I tell her so. But it doesn’t seem to make a difference. I tell her again. It seems to just egg her on.
“Come on! Just for ONE drink. My shout. It can even be one of those depressing, adult drinks you insist on having.”
“Nothing wrong with what I drink. And for the last time, no! I’m going home to stand in the shower until the smell of month-old grease and mushy beans washes off me and then sleep until the landlord comes in and discovers my body.”
“WHAT? YOU WANT TO SLEEP WITH THE LANDLORD? I CAN’T HEAR YOU!” She yells into the phone so loud I have to hold the earpiece away from my face. “Please, Noémie! Just one drink and then I’ll drive you home.”
“In what? Isn’t your car in the shop?”
“Daddy got me a rental while my car is being repaired. I called him and told him if he didn’t, I’d walk home at night and then sent him a whole bunch of mugging news stories and the next thing a car appeared,” she giggles.
Of course, it did. I’m not complaining. I’m the appreciative beneficiary of Paige’s manipulation of her Dad and his credit card. Like now. Car. Means no walking twelve blocks.
“Just think about it, sitting back against the leather seat, taking your shoes off, butt getting warmed by the seat warmer. One drink and I’ll have you home in time to watch the end of Seth Myers.”
“Bitch.”
“You adore me,” she says, and for the first time, she’s not yelling.
“Why’s it so quiet all of a sudden?”
“Cos I’m outside, waiting for you.”
I sigh. Pretending this isn’t going to happen is just going to take more energy. “Fine. I’ll be there in five.”
I hang up the phone just in time to save my ear being abused by her high-pitched squeal.
***
It actually takes me ten minutes to walk there. Walk barely three blocks. The sidewalks are packed with people and the streets are jammed with cars, filling the night with sounds of honking horns.
I turn the corner and even Gators has a line curling around the block. It’s a good thing we’re regulars. Or not. I could use an excuse just to go home.
“Noémie! Over here!” I hear Paige call my name and she’s leaning against the wall of the entrance, dressed like she’s on her way to a gig as a go-go dancer. I wave to her and she runs over to me.
“Hey, girl! I’m so glad you came.”
“ONE drink. And then HOME. I mean it,” I warn her, and she just giggles and lays her head on my shoulder, squeezing my arm. I feel myself thaw a little, feeling bad for being such a grouch. We’ve been roommates for three years now and I probably wouldn’t still be living in L.A. if it wasn’t for her. I didn’t know when I answered the ad for a roommate that I’d be ending up living practically rent-free with a spoiled socialite who needed a friend. A spoiled socialite and her gigantic shoe closet. And trust fund.
“Fine, fine! Come on!” She pushes us through the entrance, giving Paul the doorman a wink and giggle as he waves us through.
“Why is it so busy tonight?” I ask her as we elbow our way to the bar.
“You’re serious?”
“Wha? Is the Queen in town or something?”
“No! The Grammys were on tonight.”
Oh god. I totally forgot. And good thing too; if I’d remembered there wouldn’t be a chance in hell I’d be out. Grammy night is stay off the streets of downtown L.A. night. Between the celebrities and the celebrity spotting tourists and the paps, it’s pretty much an introvert’s (read: me) nightmare. It’s nights like these I wonder what I’m even doing living here.
Paige waves at James the bartender for our drinks and he gives her a grin that tells me they’ve done more than just talk on the few nights he’s driven her home in the last few weeks. I don’t know how she does it, charming everyone who comes within reach of her 10,000-watt smile, but who am I to question it? It worked on me after all.
“Hey, Noémie,” James says, tilting his chin to me as a greeting, “The usual?”
I nod and give him a small
wave before spinning around and leaning my back against the bar rail, looking out into the crowd. It’s pretty much bumper-to-bumper human traffic in here. Or as I like to tell Paige fake bum-to-bum traffic. The ratio of silicon to human flesh is higher than in your average city. Which is when Paige usually demands an apology, pointing to her own chest. I recognize almost no one, which is unusual, considering Paige drags me here at least once a week. I don’t mind, I have no interest in talking to anyone tonight. The louder it is and the more it discourages small talk, the faster I can fulfil my one drink quota, the faster I can go home.
As soon as I think about how peaceful it is, despite the thousands of writhing bodies and thumping music, I feel a hot, sweaty body press up against my arm.
“Noémie, babe. Nice to see you here tonight,” it shouts into my ear, and it’s hot and uncomfortably close. Or it could just be the owner is the reason the skin is crawling up my back and neck. I try to shrink away, but it just follows me.
“Hi. Chris,” is all I reply, turning my body completely away from him. He doesn’t seem to get the message and just keeps leaning forward, like he’s trying to permanently bind his chest with mine.
“You look goooooooooood today, babe. So sexy,” he drawls, his eyes like a centipede slinking over my body. I try to suppress a shudder, but then decide, why should I?
He mistakes my disgust for some other kind of sign and grins, flashing his too perfect teeth. Teeth that don’t look like they grew from natural substance.
“Did you see me on TV tonight? I was hosting for MeemoTV at the Grammys,” he says, naming one of the cable talk shows I’ve never spent more than two seconds watching while flicking through channels. “Well, some of the pre-red carpet stuff.”
“Nope. Didn’t see it. Working.”
“That’s too bad, I could’ve taken you as my date.”
“Yeah, too bad.”
I see Paige over his shoulder and she’s grinning and pointing to him then raising her thumb up. She’s got to be kidding, right? I wouldn’t set this guy up with my worst nightmare. I take another step back and bump into someone, who shoves me, making me fall toward the human centipede. He gives me a wink and slings an arm over my shoulder, his rum drenched breath washing over me.
