My Night with a Rockstar

by Mankin, Michelle

  God. It was the best and worst thing he could have said to me. Because as he stared up at me with a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, I felt my resolve crumbling. How could I resist him?

  The answer was I couldn’t.

  I didn’t want to.

  But I also didn’t want to end up broken again.

  “Levi, I—”

  A knock at the door silenced me.

  “We’re busy,” Levi yelled, shooting me a rare smile.

  “Levi, it’s me,” Eva’s voice filtered through the door. “We need to talk.”

  “To both of you,” Rafe added.

  I shot up, ignoring the fact they knew I was in here, because something was wrong. I’d heard it in Rafe’s voice.

  “If this is his lame attempt at cockblocking me again, I’ll—”

  “Levi,” I said, “it could be important.” Climbing out of bed, I found my clothes and pulled them on. Levi did the same, not bothering to find his t-shirt. Hurrying over to the door, I pulled it open.

  “Can we talk?”

  “Uh, sure,” I said, stepping aside to let them in.

  It wasn’t exactly how I’d imagined this morning going, but then, I hadn’t imagined ever waking up in Levi’s room.

  “There’s something you need to see,” Rafe said to his brother while Eva came to stand beside me, lacing her arm through mine.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, and my stomach sank.

  “What is it?” I asked, my skin vibrating.

  “Here.” Rafe handed Levi his phone. “It broke this morning.”

  “What the—fucking bitch...” The color drained from his face as his eyes flicked to mine.

  “Levi?” My voice wavered.

  “I can explain,” he rushed out, running a hand over his head. “It’s not how it looks.”

  “Let me see.” Dread snaked through me.

  “Phoebe, why don’t...” Eva’s voice was drowned out by the roar of blood between my ears as I moved toward Levi and Rafe.

  “Don’t, please...” He let out a guttural scream as he punched the wall.

  “Levi,” Eva screamed, rushing to his side. Blood coated his knuckles and splattered the pale walls.

  Rafe went to move, but I grabbed his hand. A grainy image stared back at me. My brows creased as I tried to work out what I was looking at. Then I saw it.

  The naked woman, the line of white powder on her stomach, and there, leaning over her, was Levi.

  A strangled bitter laugh bubbled up my throat.

  “Phoebe?” Levi said, regret glittering in his eyes.

  “This... this is why I promised myself to stay away.”

  “I can explain—”

  “Save it.” I’d heard every excuse in the book and then a few more.

  We weren’t together.

  We weren’t anything.

  Levi was my boss and this photo was bad for business.

  “I need to find Letty.” I brushed past them, but Levi snagged my wrist. “Wait, we should talk about this.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about. I’m your assistant, you’re my boss, and we need to get on this thing before it spirals out of control.”

  “Phoebe, don’t do this.” He sounded so desperate, but I couldn’t cave, not now.

  Not after seeing that.

  “Do what?” I pasted on a fake smile, forcing down every single thing I felt for Levi.

  “For real? You’re going to stand there and pretend last night meant nothing?”

  “One night.” I shrugged unable to meet his eyes. “That’s what we agreed. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a job to do.”

  He released me and staggered back as if I’d burned him. I hurried out of there, but heard him shout, “Phoebe.”

  “Let her go,” Rafe said.

  And then I heard a sound I hadn’t witnessed yet.

  I heard Levi Hunter completely lose his shit.

  The End.

  I hope you enjoyed Rock… Levi and Phoebe’s full story is coming in Ruin: The Reprise, available here

  Black Hearts Still Beat

  The sweetheart of Country is about to show the bad boys of Rock, it only takes a single beat for everything to change.

  Eva and Rafe’s Trilogy

  Rush: The Beginning

  Rise: The Interlude

  Rule: The Finale

  Black Hearts Still Beat: Eva and Rafe’s Trilogy

  Levi and Phoebe’s Story

  Ruin: The Reprise

  Angsty. Edgy. Addictive RomanceAuthor of mature young adult and new adult novels, L A is happiest writing the kind of books she loves to read: addictive stories full of teenage angst, tension, twists and turns. Home is a small town in the middle of England where she currently juggles being a full-time writer with being a mother/referee to two little people. In her spare time (and when she’s not camped out in front of the laptop) you’ll most likely find L A immersed in a book, escaping the chaos that is life.

  L A loves connecting with readers.

  The best places to find her are:

  Official Website

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  Megara

  The white walls of the Emergency Room are blinding. The beige and brown tile floors, the ones with the crisscross pattern, are somehow too bright and too full at once.

  The chairs are too green.

  Too slick.

  The vinyl is too hard.

  And the beds—they’re all wrong. The sheets are that same shade of soft blue, impossibly muted from a thousand and one washes in scalding hot water.

  But I can’t look at them without seeing Rosie.

  Her blue lips.

  Her pale skin.

  Those track marks on her arms.

  I close my eyes, but that doesn’t help. I still see her. Not the empty vessel of her no longer breathing body, but the lively high school senior modeling her fuchsia prom dress, and reminding me of her cover story in case Mom or Dad got off work early.

  The proud UCLA graduate, tossing her royal blue cap into the air.

  The knowing older sister who plopped on my bed to fill me in on her date and tease me about being all work and no play.

  She was here last week.

  Then she was in one of those beds.

  Now, she’s gone.

  My stomach twists, but it doesn’t hurt. My heart doesn’t hurt. My muscles don’t ache.

  Every part of me is numb.

  Dr. Nyguen shoots me a concerned look. “You ready to go, Meg?”

  No. And she knows it. This is too soon. Back to working as a scribe a week after my sister…

  I shouldn’t be here.

  But there’s nowhere else I want to be.

  There’s nowhere I want to be, period.

  I nod back at her. “I’m ready.”

  She doesn’t believe me, but she doesn’t call me on it.

  • • •

  It’s a twenty minute walk home. After a quick shower, I boot up my laptop to stream the Los Angeles alternative rock station KROQ, and I collapse in bed.

  There’s nothing interesting on social media. Or on any of the news sites I frequent. Not that anything interests me right now.

  I boot up a match-three game and click the shiny tiles mindlessly. I don’t feel any thrill when the gems match and explode. In fact, the cutesy graphics are grating my nerves.

  But I need something to occupy my hands and my mind. The game keeps my eyes busy. The radio keeps my ears busy. Between the two, my head fills with mindless chatter. Usually, that would annoy me. Not right now. Right now, mindless chatter is my saving grace. Mindless chatter is the only thing keeping me from sinking into oblivion.

  After an hour, I switch to playing FreeCell. An hour of that and my eyes and hands get tired. It’s late. I’m tired. Maybe I’ll be able to fall asleep.

 
I push my laptop aside, brush my teeth, change into my pajamas, and get back into bed.

  It’s a hot night, but I don’t feel that either. I can’t feel anything but the dryness in my eyes and the heaviness in my heart.

  The song switches from a Nirvana classic to an inviting guitar riff. I haven’t heard it before.

  Which means it’s new. I listen to this station non-stop. I know every song they play.

  The riff is moody and catchy. Then the bass and drums are kicking in, and I can feel the song everywhere.

  The singer’s voice flows into my ears. He’s groaning with this unspeakable pain. This song is loud and big and incredibly rock ‘n’ roll, but somehow he’s singing to me.

  He’s singing for me.

  I only catch bits and pieces of the verse. Can’t sleep. No… recovery.

  I only catch hints of the chorus. A minute here and then you’re gone.

  I close my eyes and focus all my attention on the song. It doesn’t help me pick out the words of the second verse. I’m too caught up in the singer’s pain. He knows how this feels. He knows how badly this hurts.

  This time, I catch every word of the chorus.

  That word, a joke, you laugh.

  “Running away again, kid?”

  A minute here

  and then you’re gone.

  I catch snippets of the third verse.

  Four weeks now.

  That hole, that dread.

  I can barely breathe

  Four weeks now. That’s an eternity. That hole, that dread, that inability to breathe—every inch of my being knows those awful feelings.

  Every inch of my being is sure that this song is about exactly what I’m going through.

  I listen closely in hopes of the D.J. spilling the name or the band, but he doesn’t. He switches right into Everlong by the Foo Fighters. Normally, I appreciate the song, even if it’s a little overplayed. Right now, it goes right through my ears.

  I need to hear that song again.

  It’s doing something to me, sparking something in me.

  I tap the lyrics that come to me into the search bar of my computer. That hole, that dread, I can barely breathe.

  There. The page fills with lyrics sites. Sinful Serenade. In Pieces. I read over the lyrics again and again. Each time, my stomach twists. It hurts, and somehow that’s both worse and better than feeling nothing.

  My heart is heavier and lighter at the same time.

  My body is aching and empty at the same time.

  I boot up Spotify and I listen to the song again.

  Again.

  Again.

  Each time, I catch more of the lyrics.

  I feel better.

  And worse.

  Empty.

  And full.

  I don’t know what the hell I’m doing right now. I don’t know what I should be doing. The only thing I want is for school to start. Then, I’ll have something meaningful to occupy my mind. I’ll have some way to block out all these thoughts.

  This guy, this singer, he knows exactly how this feels.

  He understands me.

  And I understand him.

  And that’s terrifying and comforting at the same time.

  Megara

  For weeks, In Pieces is everywhere. It’s on every Los Angeles station. It’s all over Spotify and Pandora. It’s playing in coffee shops and boutiques.

  And it’s there, on my computer, on repeat.

  It’s a powerful drug. I try to resist the hit. I let the ache in my heart build. I let that feeling that no one understands how much this hurts--that no one will ever understand how much this hurts--build and build until I can’t take it anymore.

  Then I listen.

  And I fall apart.

  I make a playlist. I add other songs that tug at my heartstrings. Other songs that brush up against that overwhelming ache.

  But none of them hit me as deeply as In Pieces.

  None of the vocalists are singing for me.

  It’s only this guy who is singing in my ear.

  It’s only him who understands me.

  I don’t know his name.

  I don’t have a clue what he looks like.

  But, somehow, he’s the only person who can comfort me.

  I know that other people deal with loss. I know my parents are hurting, Rosie’s friends are hurting, a million other people are hurting right now.

  But he’s the only person hurting the way I’m hurting.

  He’s the only person who understands this exact mix of loss and longing.

  Three weeks now.

  Can’t sleep.

  Gaping hole in my chest

  shows no signs of recovery.

  That word, a joke, you laugh.

  “Running away again, kid?”

  A minute here

  and then you’re gone.

  Lights out.

  Can’t sleep.

  Heavy head,

  but no one else can see.

  (No one ever did).

  A lost cause still,

  worse than before.

  No signs of recovery.

  That word, a joke, you laugh.

  “Running away again kid?”

  A minute here

  And then you’re gone.

  Four weeks now.

  That hole, that dread.

  I can barely breathe

  Anywhere but here.

  Anything but this.

  I want to take your lead.

  Every day, I understand him a little more. And he understands me a little more. My sister OD’d. On heroin. I had no idea she was using. I ignored every sign. Then bam, she was gone. A fire extinguished. And now the wisps of smoke are blowing away in the breeze.

  When I close my eyes, she’s there.

  Then she’s not.

  The only time I let the grief seep in is during In Pieces. It’s the only time I’m safe enough to let down the dam holding back every ounce of agony.

  I catch his name in the credits of one of those lyrics sites. Miles Webb.

  It’s like he’s holding me, this Miles guy.

  But that’s ridiculous.

  How can a man I’ve never met, who I will never meet, give me this kind of comfort?

  I want more of him.

  All of him.

  He’s a Google search away. I’m tempted to look into his life, to see how he interviews, to see what he looks like. But every time I get the urge to pore into his online presence, something stops me.

  The relationship we have right now—him singing for me, me letting his words pour into my soul—is perfect. More information could only ruin it. What if he’s a cocky jerk? What if he’s a manwhore? What if he has more ego than Kanye? What if he bashes his exes with more vitriol than every Taylor Swift album combined?

  This is what I want.

  He gets me.

  I get him.

  I don’t ask him for anything but his voice in my ears, his words in my soul.

  He doesn’t ask anything of me but my appreciation, my need, my consideration.

  I resist for a long, long time.

  Then the band drops a music video. Spotify reminds me everyday. Pandora too. I resist for days. Weeks.

  I go to work. I see Kara on Sundays. I fill the rest of my time with anything I can find.

  One night I get home late, tired and in desperate need of comfort. And there’s Spotify again, reminding me about the new Sinful Serenade music video. There’s a shot of a man in a lonely room, his face obscured by a broken door frame, his naked torso exposed.

  Dammit. I’m only human.

  I play the video.

  It’s in black and white. A sparse bedroom, the window open, the sheer curtains blowing. And there’s his back. Miles. He’s pressing his palms into the window frame, his muscles taut, his strong shoulders tense with months of sleepless nights.

  He turns. The camera catches the side of his face. His shoulder. The tattoo snaking down his chest a
nd over his obliques. He’s just wearing jeans. They’re slung low around his narrow hips.

  Even in the soft lighting, the lines of his torso are clear.

  He’s incredibly defined.

  And those tattoos covering his chest and arms…

  The hot rock star in only jeans is a cheap attempt at getting attention.

  But there’s also something intimate about it.

  I’m watching him trapped in this room, restless and empty and out of his head. He’s trapped in that lonely room. But, really, it doesn’t matter where he is or who’s around.

  He’s trapped in his lonely head.

  He’s trapped in these ugly thoughts.

  No one else gets how much it hurts.

  No one else understands him.

  He’s handsome. Incredibly handsome. But it’s not his brilliant eyes that grab my attention.

  It’s all that pain in his expression.

  The way he hurts like I hurt.

  The way he understands how this feels.

  I watch the video twice.

  Three times.

  Until I fall asleep.

  • • •

  The weight shifts in my bed.

  There’s a breeze ruffling my sheets.

  It’s sending my hair in every direction.

  It’s soft on my eyelashes.

  There’s another pressure on my skin. It’s nearly as soft as the breeze. Nearly as delicate.

  Fingertips.

  Fingertips on my forearm.

  On my shoulder.

  My collarbone.

  It’s been a long time since anyone has touched me like this. Since anyone has touched me at all. There was my high school boyfriend, then a few almost-hookups.

  School takes all my time.

  No guys.

  No…

  Fuck, those fingertips feel good. My eyelids are still pressed together. I can’t see him. Somehow, I can tell I’m safe. That he won’t hurt me.

  That he only wants to bring me comfort.

  Pleasure.

  He drags his fingertips down my chest. Over the neckline of my tank top. The weight of his body sinks into mine. He’s heavy and hard and warm.

  My skin is burning from his touch.