Rock Mayhem
Candy J Starr
Published by Candy J Starr, 2020.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
ROCK MAYHEM
First edition. February 24, 2020.
Copyright (c) 2020 Candy J Starr.
Written by Candy J Starr.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Rock Mayhem
COME BACK
COME CLOSER
COME CLEAN
GUITAR FREAK
SEX FREAK
HARD FREAK
WILDE FREAK
ROCK STAR'S WAGER
Thanks for picking up Rock Mayhem.
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Broken rockers and the women who complete them...
That feeling you get you hear a certain song. The world slips away and you're in a place where the lights glare brighter than the sun, the music thrills you to your toes and that guy, all arrogance and rock-hard muscles strutting around the stage, he might just be the one.
You're on the edge of something you've never felt before. The dream you deny is about to come true. Fall in love with all the rocker book boyfriends you can handle.
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Thank you to Sleepy Fox Studio for cover design.
COME BACK
Alice
MY PHONE RANG HALFWAY through my haircut. It was my editor. I waved Jasmine, the hairdresser, away. I needed to answer this. Editor calls lead to money.
Eleanor started with the small talk.
"Make it snappy. I'm at the hairdresser," I said. "She's halfway through my haircut and I might end up with something very weird if I annoy her too much."
Eleanor mentioned an assignment, then sort of rushed the name out as though she could get it passed me without me noticing.
"Asher Savage?"
"You might've heard of him. He's pretty famous." The sarcasm dripped from her voice.
Of course I'd heard of him. I even knew he'd decided to go with just Savage as his name. After being Asher Savage for a while. What I didn't understand was why my editor even mentioned that name to me. The manufactured pop singer turned bad boy man whore didn't even enter my frame of reference. He'd been totally off the rails for the last few years, since the pop group broke up.
"I know who he is, I just don't understand why I'd care."
"He's making a comeback. As a rocker. A total transformation." She sounded way too excited about that.
"And?"
"And, we're covering it."
Aha. Question answered. I understood why she'd called. I understood only too well. And I didn't like it. I wouldn't work with someone like Asher Savage. I worked with rockers, plain and simple. I liked my assignments gritty and real. Taking photos of a pretty boy has-been didn't suit my style. A thousand photographers would jump at the chance. I wasn't one of them. And transformation? Ick. Would that mean I'd be waiting around for him to get his makeup done, get his outfits styled?
"It doesn't sound like my kind of assignment."
I worked freelance, so it wasn't like she could make me do it. Even if I needed the money, I'd not work with Savage. Every news source in the world said that he was hell to work with. Half the time, he never even turned up for things, the other he was stoned or drunk or incapacitated in some other way. He tried to have sex with every woman in his path too. All wah-wah, I got too much, too young. Yeah, whatever. Some of us got nothing ever, so that didn't cut it with me.
In the mirror, I could see Jasmine's reflection behind me. Arms folded and making faces. I gave her a wave to let her know I'd just be a minute.
"What about I throw out another name? Kit Molloy."
"Fuck yeah. That's more what I'm talking about."
I'd been photographing stars for long enough now. I never got star struck. They were all just people. Often more like spoilt brats than adults. But there was one name in the rock world that got me in a tailspin. Kit Molloy. The rocker with soulful eyes, who penned words like poetry. He was a true artist.
"Well, here's the deal. You get the Kit Molloy job on one condition."
I knew this would not go well. It never did when she put on that sunny voice. My stomach dropped.
"No."
"You haven't heard it yet."
"I don't need to. I know I'm going to hate it. Hate."
"One week documenting Savage's transformation from off-the-rails has-been to rock god. And, at the end of it, you get to go on tour with Kit Molloy. The whole tour."
Jesus, the tour. I wanted it. I wanted it so much. Could I put up with Savage for a week in return for that? Hell yeah. What was a week out of my life? I'd turn up to the shoots, snap a bunch of pictures and not even talk to the guy more than necessary. So worth it for the glittering prize at the end. A week of solid income would sure help my bank balance too.
I couldn't knock that back.
"Okay, I'll do it. I won't like it but I'll do it."
"No one's asking you to like it."
I hung up and Jasmine came back over.
"All finished?" she asked.
"Yep."
I glanced down at the magazine on my lap. I never read glossy magazines but what else do you do at the hair salon? The page was open to a shot of Savage, like some sign from above. A sign of what though?
The photo showed him at a nightclub with a model on his arm. Both of them looked completely wasted. Of course, Savage's shirt was unbuttoned, showing off his chiseled abs and stunning collarbones. What a stereotype. The model with him could've been any of a thousand girls. Same generic looks - tall, blonde, tanned. Super white teeth. The only thing marring her look was the lipstick smeared over her face.
At least he'd keep his distance from me. I was the opposite to the model type. Curvy figure, button nose and snarly attitude. I dressed for practicality, not glamour. As a photographer, I got overlooked in a studio filled with willowy models. That suited me fine. I was there for work, not for play. Having guys hit on me would just be a nuisance.
This was the first haircut I'd had in about five years. Well, the first one I'd had professionally done. I'd hacked at it myself a few times. I rarely wore makeup, especially when I was working. Even with this new haircut, I'd never stand out. Models might be slobby pigs in their private lives - trust me, I know - but when they're working it's all polish and shine. I'm just a slobby pig 24/7. I lived in band t-shirts and jeans, with my favorite clunky boots. I needed to be able to work in my clothes, not swan around looking glamorous.
I was pretty much in the middle of the average range when it came to looks.
"Whoa," Jasmine said. "Savage. I love that guy. When I was thirteen years old, my dream was to meet him. He was only fifteen but he seemed like the perfect older guy back then. And look at him now, a bit screwed up but I'd still go there. Just check out that sparkle in his eyes and the roguish smile. He's a man who'd know his way around a juice box."
I shuddered. She'd said, "juice box"? I hadn't heard wrong, with the noise of the hairdryers and all?
I saw her eyes. She'd most definitely said juice box.
He'd known his way around way too many juice boxes for my liking. He was probably the king of juice boxes. That was not the kind of guy I liked to work with.
"Those abs," she said.
"I could lick those for days."
Wow, I wondered if Jasmine would take over this assignment for me. Probably. Thousands of women would. But then they'd be too busy throwing themselves at him to get the job done. I might not want this job but I sure as hell would do the best work possible. That's the only thing I knew how to do.
"You know he's planning a comeback," she added. "That is going to be so hot."
In the next picture, he grinned right at the camera. He knew where the paps would be and he played to them. All brashness and cocky grins. I hated that kind of guy the most.
I closed the magazine and threw it on the counter in front of me. If she wanted to look at Savage's abs, she could do it on her own time.
"You could do a bit more hair cutting and a bit less panting over popstars," I said to her.
Jasmine laughed.
"You could definitely do with a lot more panting over guys," she replied. "It's going to close up if you don't use it soon."
At least she hadn't said juice box.
"I get plenty," I said.
And she laughed because she knew exactly how long it'd been since a guy had been near my juice box.
"Not every guy wants some model type, you know. You have lots of good points. You just need to let your guard down."
I liked my guard. It kept the creeps away. And, by good points, she meant I had big tits. I wanted to be more than just a pair of tits on legs.
She began blow drying my hair and I got out my phone. To clear my mind of Savage, I looked up Kit Molloy. I'd seen the photos of him a million times but another look wouldn't hurt. It was all about motivation.
Kit Molloy, so hot. While Jasmine hadn't been wrong about the roguish grin of Asher Savage, I much preferred Kit's bittersweet smile. He had that velvet voice, that wrapped you up and made you feel warm inside. He didn't sing cheesy pop songs; his words were like poetry. The kind of music that touched your soul. Kit Molloy knew pain. He knew what it was like to struggle. Unlike that spoilt popstar.
You never saw photos of Kit Molloy in the gossip mags, you never saw anything about him at all, because he was a real musician not just someone playing at it. Savage would release this album, realize he was out of his depth with the rock world, then run back to his cheesy pop music. Or maybe run to something else. People like him did. Maybe he'd bring out an aftershave line or some kind of clothing range. Or become a judge on a reality TV show.
What did I care? I'd do this week, then Savage could go on his merry way along with the rest of his celeb buddies.
In just over a week, Kit Molloy and I would be together. Who knew what would develop from that? On tour with him, I'd get to see him every day. A friendship would form. We would talk about his lyrics and his music and life. The two of us, alone, talking long into the night. It was so worth a week of torture for that.
Savage
ANOTHER BLOODY PHOTO shoot. Like I hadn't done enough of them in this lifetime. I'd said no to my manager but that didn't wash. You can't have a publicity push without photos.
"But, a damn photographer tagging along with me for a week?" I'd said. "What the hell were you thinking?"
I'd kill Gary. This was the craziest stunt he'd pulled in a long time. If I wanted my private life exposed, I had the paparazzi for that. Hell, over the past few years, I had to buy the papers just to see where I'd been the night before, sometimes even to see who I'd gone home with.
Self-control never came easy to me and hell, when chicks threw themselves at you, why bother? They're begging for it, I want it and no one gets hurt. Beats me why anyone would care about that shit? It's not like it's wrong. I don't torture puppies or be rude to old ladies or steal from the poor. I just liked sex and drinking. And I liked sex and drinking without the whole world knowing about it.
Every single person in this world has wolves circling them. My wolves were the paparazzi. They were out there, constantly watching, constantly waiting for me to fuck up. You don't invite wolves like that into your home. You don't open the door and ask them if they'd like a fine beverage to go with the flesh they are going to strip from your bones.
There was no way out of it though. They wanted to capture the whole transformation process. I'd have happily let the past stay in the past but the media loved an angle, and "pop sensation turned rock star" was exactly the angle they wanted.
"A week, Ash, just a week. I'm not going to beg you to do it. Make the decision yourself. You're supposed to be an adult now. You want the new album to succeed, you do the publicity for it." Then he sighed, as though he was sick of me.
A week, I guess I could handle it. In a month's time, my new album would release. At the end of the week, I had a show to preview the material. It was all happening so fast. And I needed this to go well.
New album, new image. There were only so many comebacks you could do in this industry before you got written off. I knew I teetered on the edge. Either hit it out of the park with this one or find another career. Fuck knows what. You can't even get a job flipping burgers when you've been a household name. Every smartarse in town would come in, giving his opinion and making lame jokes. A few weeks of that and you're ready to throw punches.
The first project on the list was a regular photoshoot. I could phone that in. Put on some swanky outfit and pump out a few cheesy poses. Then some stuff at home, in the rehearsal studio, and then at the show at the end of the week. At least it was with a reputable magazine. Not just reputable but one with a ton of rocker cred.
The studio was way out of town, some desolate place on the edge of the city. The hour's drive meant some extra kip for me. Turning up to a shoot hungover probably wasn't the best move but I needed one night on the tiles before this photographer began shadowing me. Last night of freedom and all that.
I stumbled into the studio, dark sunglasses cutting the glare of the morning light. When I got inside though, I plastered a smile on my face. Best to get off on the right terms. They whisked me off to makeup.
"Make sure you cover the bags under my eyes," I told the makeup artist.
I shot her a smile and she blushed. Sure, she tried to act cool about it but that got her all juicy. I gave her the once over. She wasn't bad but not my type. A bit of light flirtation never hurt but I wouldn't be asking her for her phone number. I sure as hell needed all the magic she could conjure up to cover the signs of my big night though.
I thought of slapping her on the butt but apparently, that's not the thing to do anymore.
The stylist came in with a bunch of clothes.
She held up one outfit.
"You're bloody kidding."
I waved her away then the makeup artist grabbed my face, turning it back to her.
The stylist moved into my line of vision. I couldn't talk with the makeup artist clutching my face so I just did a thumbs down. Same for the next ten outfits.
Finally, the makeup artist let go of me. The stylist held up some atrocity.
"Bloody hell, it's got ruffles. Ruffles! I'm not a clown."
"It's on trend."
She grinned. I didn't grin back.
"Hot rocker is the look we're going for," I said. "Rocker. Get it? Tight t-shirt to show off the six pack, leather pants to show off the gear. More leather. Not ruffles. Never ruffles, love."
At least she'd asked me first.
I'd been forced into enough fashion disasters in this life. Where they got them from, I'll never know. Stylists take way too many drugs. Fashion designers do too. Hell, you just had to google my name to see the fucking hideous shit they'd made us wear as kids. That purple velvet number! I'd burn down the entire Internet if I thought that photo would die with it.
The whole point of this campaign, the change of image, was to make me look like a tough guy. Not the former teen idol but a rocker.
People think I'm difficult. It's not that I want to tell other people how to do their jobs; I just want them to do their jobs properly.
This was my career. I wasn't doing this to make s
ome stylist happy. I'd be the one with my face plastered all over magazines and, if I looked like a dick, not one single person would think but ruffles are on trend. They'd assume I was a tasteless bozo.
Finally, she showed me an outfit that wasn't too bad. I gave her a nod.
By the time the makeup artist finished, my stomach rumbled and my head ached. I wanted to get this over with as soon as possible.
I jumped out of the makeup chair and stripped off. The stylist opened her mouth. I think she was going to mention the change room set up in the corner, but the makeup artist slapped her arm. The pair of them watched me strip. Shame of my body was something I didn't know. I worked hard to look like this.
I stripped down to my jocks and was about to put on the jeans the stylist had given me.
"Holy shit, what do you think you're doing?" someone screamed.
As I turned, I put on a cheeky grin. Another woman wanting a piece of me.
The fiery dynamo that faced me wiped the grin off my face. Green eyes flashed with fury. My glance took in more than her green eyes, though. Hell, you couldn't blame me. Those tits were squeezed into a tight t-shirt, almost bursting out. I didn't know who she was but her knockers had me licking my lips.
She wasn't even pretty. Well, not model pretty. But she had sex appeal, that's for sure.
Alice
HE STOOD IN FRONT OF me, almost naked. There was a perfectly good change room but no, he had to have all the attention.
"I'm getting changed," he said. Then grinned again.
I wanted to wipe that grin off his face and I wanted to stop looking.
"There's a place for that."
He shrugged. That shrug rippled down the muscles of his arms.
I should not be reacting like this. I fought to maintain my professional face. But inside, I churned. His body was almost perfect. The arms, the abs, the everything. My body heated and the juice rushed to my juice box. I thought about what Jasmine had said. He would know his way around there.
Rock Mayhem: 8 Complete Rock Star Romance Novels Page 1
