My Night with a Rockstar

by Mankin, Michelle

  “Keep it up, baby, and you’re gonna get more than you bargained for.”

  I match his adoring grin with one of my own. “I already have.”

  Thank you for reading Hate F*ck!

  I hope you enjoyed the story of Maribelle and Lizard.

  Read their romance from the beginning in No Regrets, available only in the Off Limits Collection.

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  Special thanks to Linda Soto.

  Jane Anthony is a USA Today Bestselling author of contemporary & new adult romance. She writes hot blue-collar dudes, raunchy rockstars, and fun feisty heroines. Her work is gritty and real and will have you cursing her name and begging for more.

  Jane gives a bit of herself and her quirky knowledge in each novel by incorporating her love of music through a book-specific playlist and adding things uniquely Jane to the plot, like her crazy family or ‘80s trivia. When she’s not busy being mom or Mrs. A, you’ll find her at a concert, lost in a book, or watching horror movies with her husband.

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  The boys are back—the AnyDayNow boys, that is!

  RJ, Bodhi’s best friend from Like the Wind, finds himself at a crossroads a year after the band officially broke up. After his solo career fails to take off, RJ retreats to a no-frills apartment where he can hide out from the world and wallow in self-pity.

  But when the girl next door starts slipping ‘good neighbor’ contracts under his door and complaining about his behavior through strategically placed Post-it-Notes, RJ snaps out of his self-absorbed melancholy to wage war. Nothing short of an act of nature could repair the relationship between these two strong-willed enemies. But guess what Fate has in store?

  RJ

  Death of a Heartthrob

  My eyes are open, but I can’t see. A chill prickles my skin as I inch forward, one small step at a time, using my hands as guides even though I have no idea what I’m reaching for. It feels expansive—dangerous—like at any moment I might plunge over the edge of a cliff. Intermittent pulses of light flash like the pops of a camera shutter. Darkness and then light. A low murmur can be heard from somewhere in the shadows. I tilt my head in the direction of sound, trying to make out the words. A chant? The lights suddenly flick on, flooding my eyes and giving me the first view of my surroundings. I’m on a stage, microphone in hand, but I’m silent. Paralyzed. The audience studies me from their place of safety. The sound grows louder until I recognize it for what it is – laughter.

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  Jolting upright, I panted wildly as my brain worked overtime shifting me in and out of that nightmare world and dumping me here…into a not-much-better waking one. Reaching for my phone, I silenced the alarm before dropping back onto my bed and cursing the audience that mocked me whenever I closed my eyes. I wanted to scream, or throw things at the wall. But instead I just lay there, silently seething.

  “Fuck you,” I grumbled to the haters in my dreams. “Fuck you all!”

  Dragging my ass out of bed, I wandered into the bathroom to take a piss, and inadvertently I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Whoa! Shit! I twisted my head around to make sure there wasn’t an axe murderer with my likeness sneaking up behind me. Nope. Just me. Damn—at least I looked the part of pathetic washed-up has-been. No one could say I wasn’t living up to potential.

  God, what happened to me?

  No, seriously. What happened?

  I looked like I’d crawled out of a manhole. What was up with my hair? It was like there was a party going on front, back, and center. And to think there was a time when these bitchin’ tresses inspired Instagram accounts and caused little girls to faint dead away. Yeah, those were the days.

  I sighed. This, right here, was why I avoided mirrors. They were a reminder of how far I’d fallen. Back when I was a bona fide heartthrob, industry people lined the block, eager to help me look the part. The hair, the clothes, the…okay, we weren’t going to talk about the man makeup. I’d bought into the hype, reveling in the thrill of being included with the heavy hitters, like with People magazine’s sexiest men alive. But now, examining my blank canvas up close, I saw that much of my looks had been manufactured through the Hollywood spin machine. I wasn’t all that. Hell, I wasn’t all this.

  Maybe if I shaved off the nastiness that covered three quarters of my face, I’d feel better about myself. I mean, I wasn’t a bad-looking guy on a good day. But that beard—dude. I didn’t even know where to begin describing it other than to say it ate other beards for breakfast. Migrating north and south, the unrestrained growth was climbing not only up my face but down my throat. It was only a matter of time before my wily whiskers joined forces with the lonely, south-of-the-equator happy trail, and then I might as well throw in the towel. This was not good. Even if I wanted to get back in the beauty-obsessed music business, the doors would be deadbolted shut for the new and unimproved me.

  Not bothering to flush, I slammed the lid down and sidestepped to the sink, never taking my eyes off the asshole in the mirror.

  “What the hell did you do to me?” I accused my reflection.

  It answered back with the flip of its middle finger.

  “Very mature,” I mumbled, as I made my way back into the bedroom/living room/kitchen combo area of the space I now called home.

  I almost laughed at that one. Home. Let me be clear. I had a home—three, to be exact. One lavishly appointed mansion for myself in Los Angeles, one gigantic eyesore in Idaho for my blood relatives to squat in, and one ritzy penthouse suite in New York. Yet I preferred to lick my wounds here, in this bare-bones apartment. With its white walls and dull brown fixings, the 450-square-foot holding cell was no one’s idea of a relaxing spot to prop up tired feet after a long day of moping. If it weren’t for my guitar, my keyboard, and a pile of scribbled songs scattered over the Yeti cooler I used as my coffee table, there would be nothing in this suckass studio apartment that felt like home. I’d conceded defeat, and this was my place of worship.

  I think both me and the shithead in the mirror would agree. We’d hit rock bottom. Problem was, I didn’t know how to pull myself out of the crevasse I was now wedged in. I needed outside help, someone who could objectively analyze the situation…and maybe offer up some worthwhile suggestions.

  Sighing, I realized I was going to have to use a lifeline.

  “Alexa, make me not want to stick my head in the garbage disposal today.”

  “Playing grunge music,” her automated voice replied, as screaming melodies instantly blasted from her speaker.

  I stood there a moment, stunned at the lack of communication we shared before realizing maybe Alexa was on to something. Maybe I needed more shrieking in my life.

  “Ah, yes.” I nodded. “Perfect choice.”

  But by the end of the three minutes, I wanted to drive my car into a lake and not try to get out. No, this was the opposite of help. I needed something less ‘blow your brains out’ and more ‘keep that chin up, bud.’ So I asked Alexa for something upbeat, and she delivered by serving up a big healthy serving of bubblegum pop…and not just any bubblegum pop, but my bubblegum pop.

  Of course, Alexa would choose this song, the one AnyDayNow tune that gave me crippling anxiety and depression every time it came on the radio. That was the last song we’d performed that night. Our final bow. And once we walked off the stage after performing it, AnyDayNow was no more.

  I dropped into a chair, instantly morose as I tossed an old band shirt over my head and listened to the lyrics of the song that ended it all. I took a deep breath in and remembered—my brothers and me standing at the edge of the stage, arms linked, as the screams from the stadium grew louder and more persistent. Emotions were running high. We couldn’t even
look each other in the eye for fear of breaking down.

  Five years we’d performed together. Traveled together. Got stinkin’ fuckin’ rich together. And the fame. My god. It was beyond any of our wildest dreams. Me, Bodhi, Dane, Hunter, and Shawn. Goddamn, I loved those guys. None of us shared the DNA that defined a bloodline, but we were family all the same. It was that bond, one I’d never felt with my own brothers, that I missed the most after our breakup.

  Looking back, it was hard to believe we’d once been strangers; teens brought together for the ride of our lives. We’d strapped in and gone wild—some of us more than others. Look, I’d be the first to admit, I let it go to my head. I was a cocky shit, thinking I was invincible and that anything I touched would turn to gold. Time—and an ill-fated solo career—had proven me wrong. And now I’d come to the inevitable conclusion that I was only great as part of a five-sided shape. I missed touring and performing. I missed the guys. I missed my whole life.

  We should’ve stayed together.

  I know what you’re thinking—that I was the one who broke up the band. Why wouldn’t you? That was the headline splashed across tabloids the world over. “Jealous RJ Quits AnyDayNow Over Bodhi’s Rising Fame.” That didn’t happen. Sure, I’d admit to having one foot out the door well before the band actually imploded, but it was Mother Nature who dropped the final shovel of dirt on AnyDayNow’s grave.

  If you somehow missed the story of our destruction, a quick Google search would pull up the cautionary tale of my bandmate Bodhi and the swift-moving firestorm that nearly ended his life. But it was the chaotic aftermath, with the news falsely reporting Bodhi’s death, that made the four of us remaining band members unanimously call it quits. At the time, it seemed impossible for the band to weather his loss. Of course, that same Google search would tell you Bodhi showed up alive the next day, having survived the fire by the hair of his chinny-chin-chin. But, by then, the damage had already been done.

  AnyDayNow had run its course and, the way I saw it, we’d gotten out just in time. See, here’s the problem with boy bands—they were never meant to last. In fact, there was a simple mathematical formula (puberty + eight) that accurately predicted how long a boy band could thrive in the wild. Our little girl fans didn’t want us to grow old. They wanted our youthful faces and smooth skin to stay frozen in time. But there was no aging in reverse. Inevitably, we had to grow up, get hairy, and move on.

  My phone buzzed. I swiped it off the counter, saw it was Bodhi, and set the phone back down.

  “Sorry, dude, not today,” I said, hitting the ignore button. Keeping Bodhi and the boys at arm’s length was essential if I wanted to continue wallowing in my own misery.

  Speaking of which…

  “Alexa, play ‘Apologies.’”

  Yeah, I was pushing it now. “Apologies” was the first single off my debut album, and the one I was sure would catapult me into a successful solo career. I’d put everything into its creation, nurturing it to perfection. And once it was ready to share with the world, I’d sent it off like a baby bird learning to fly. God, I was so proud. Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined my songbird would slam into a closed window and plunge to the dirt with a sickening thud. But that was exactly what had happened following a disastrous concert on the pier—and the added horror of watching “Apologies” barely slide into the Billboard Top 100 charts before dropping away soon after.

  Yeah. Too bad I couldn’t swipe left on that memory.

  I listened to the lyrics trying to decipher just what it was about the song that people hated but as hard as I tried to find fault, I couldn’t. Despite what everyone else thought, I still loved my baby.

  “Alexa, do you like this song?” I asked.

  “Hmm…if you like this song,” she replied, “maybe try Nickelback.”

  “Fuck you!”

  I shot up from my chair and threw the shirt across the room. Everyone was a goddamn critic. Silencing the shrew, I headed for the kitchen and tossed all the ingredients into my blender for the perfect smoothie. Even as everything was collapsing around me, I held onto my fitness routine, eating clean and continuing my workouts because, as my life spiraled out control, my body was the only thing I had left to count on.

  My cell rang again. Bodhi. Answer the damn phone, I told myself. You can count on him. You know you can. But try as I might, I couldn’t get myself to answer. Grimacing, I let Bodhi’s call go to voicemail. I loved the dude. He was my best friend. We’d done everything together, including being the dueling heartthrobs in AnyDayNow. Ours were the names screamed from the stands. RJ and Bodhi. Bodhi and RJ.

  But then he’d gone on to bigger and better things, leaving me stuck spinning my wheels in the mud. I should have been where Bodhi was, slowly building a solo career with a good woman by my side. But instead, I’d been overconfident, rushing things in order to be the first Dayer to release a solo album. And now here I was, paying the price for my arrogance. Fuck me. Fuck all those armchair critics who reveled in my despair. And fuck Bodhi Beckett.

  Whoa! Ease, son. This wasn’t Bodhi’s fault. Not even close. He was only calling me because he was worried. They all were. How could I blame them? I’d basically dropped off the face of the earth, ghosting the guys I’d claimed would always be my brothers. But here was the deal: they wanted me to be fine. And I wasn’t fine.

  So I hid, holing myself up in this shitty apartment and living under the alias Chad Woodcock—one of the many fake names the guys and I had dreamed up on our multiple tours together. Back then, it was funny as shit. Now it just seemed sad. Maybe, deep down, I wanted them to find me, and that was why I’d picked the name Chad Woodcock. It was a clue—a piece of low-lying fruit ripe for the picking. If my buddies were really motivated, if they put their collective brains together, then maybe, just maybe, they’d find me. I wasn’t holding my breath.

  “Shit,” I whispered, disappointed in myself. I was such a bad friend. A bad singer. A bad human. I should just go back to bed, pull the sheets up over my head, and drift away. But there was nowhere safe for me. Not asleep. Not awake. Not work. Not home.

  I flicked the blender switch to ‘on.’

  Here’s to the start of another wasted day.

  Dani

  Brother from Another Mother

  Why did he have to be so perfect?

  I dropped my forehead to the table and did a little no-hands head bang. It seemed appropriate, given the circumstances. Last night, I’d been on my first date in months, but somehow, I’d managed to ruin a perfectly good evening by slut-shaming the dude’s mother over a slice of cheesecake.

  “Uhhh,” I groaned, smacking my head against the table one last time. What was wrong with me? Most girls would feel so lucky to get a date with a man like James. Set up through mutual friends, he and I seemed perfectly matched—so much in common. Some might say too much. Both driven, articulate, and dare I say, attractive, we really did have instant chemistry.

  James was a catch in every sense of the word. He was gainfully employed and loved his mother—like, a lot. Maybe even more than most, but you know, there was nothing wrong with a strong parent-child bond, even if the son was in his late twenties. Right? I mean the fact that I found it even remotely creepy spoke more to my less-than-stellar relationship with my own mother than it did James’ with his.

  And don’t even get me started on my father. Let’s just say he wasn’t in the picture—nor on my birth certificate. My father was nothing more than a vial of sperm, yet he’d still managed to wreak havoc on my personal life. See, if my dad hadn’t been such a Lothario in his early years, I wouldn’t be in this predicament with James. And, yes, I understood that made me sound like I was shifting the blame for my own bad behavior onto my father, but his bountiful right-handed tug-and-pulls in the sterile backroom of a fertility clinic really was the bane of my existence.

  Last night was a perfect example of what I was talking about. Within minutes of the start of the date with James, I began noticing
little things about him… eerily similar things. The way he used ‘so’ as a word filler between pauses. The way he traced his finger along the table top. The color of his eyes. The brightness of his hair. The dimple in his cheek. It was then I realized—James and I could be siblings. And once the thought permeated into my brain, there was no shutting it off. Suddenly all I could do was picture us finishing each other’s sentences, and not in the cutesy, unrelated sort of way. Or us celebrating the birth of our future daughter, who would arrive in this world sporting an extra nostril protruding from her belly button. Dating in the city was hard enough without having to worry that every man I met might actually be my brother.

  The sound of the blender next door pulled me out of my thoughts.

  “Chad,” I mumbled under my breath, steam venting through my ears.

  Every morning, like clockwork, Chad’s NutriBullet roared to life, and given that the wall separating my neighbor and me was as thin as a seaweed wrap, I got to be right there for the action. Living next to Chad was like interactive live theater. If he was watching sports, I heard the cheers. If he was taking a shit, I heard the plops. And if the muscle man next door was making a protein shake, I heard the high-powered crushing. What the hell was he grinding in that thing anyway—a sliding glass door?

  When I first moved in, I’d tried to give Chad the benefit of the doubt, even slipping a reverse-psychology ‘good neighbor’ contract under his door promising to keep my noise levels down for his comfort when in reality he was, and always had been, the problem. Not that the strategy worked. If anything, the contract only made him louder and more difficult. The guy had an ornery side to him that I found nearly as off-putting as the shaggy black carpet covering nearly the entire landscape of his face. But why stop there? Since I was currently on the subject of Chad, I’d be bereft not to mention the weird shit he did, like avoiding all face-to-face contact. Look, I was all for maintaining some distance, but this guy’s aversion to eye contact bordered on obsessive, especially when he covered his face with his hand as I walked by.