Now I know you, and I can never be.
Dear John, Dear John.
I hate that fucking Dear Jane Song.
You’ll never know how much that is true.
Let me just say goodbye to you.
The end, for now.
Lucian, Burners Book #1 will be released in 2021.
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Anne Mercier is the International Bestselling author of the Rockstar series, Truths series, Forbidden Fantasies series, The Way series, and the Kiss duet. She writes adult contemporary romance, new adult contemporary romance, and mature young adult romance. She was born and raised in Wisconsin and still lives there today.
When Anne’s not writing she enjoys reading amazing books, listening to music, keeping up on all things Avenged Sevenfold and Milo Ventimiglia, chatting with readers and friends, and binging Netflix series.
It’s All About The Romance
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an NSB and Turner Artist story
ABOUT THE BOOK
No one ever recognizes the bass player. Bassist Eli Blake is used to living in the shadows of his iconic bandmates. But then came the creepy basement. And the locked door. And the broom-yielding girl who looks so damn eager to smash his face in. Now he’s trapped with a murderous assistant manager who’d clearly rather be stuck with anyone else. Except… she’s kind of cute—and her glares keep melting into a different kind of heat. See, when no one recognizes the bass player, nights with a rock star become incredibly complicated. Time to find out if all’s fair in love, hate, and Bass(ment) Wars.
Eli
Missed call from Liberty Blake (4).
Liberty: Chris is leaving!
Liberty: Pick up your phone Eli!
Liberty: Ahhhh I need you!!!
I prop up in my bunk and squint at the phone screen. Four in the morning is too damn early for my cousin to be frantically trying to get my attention. This can’t be good. The bus isn’t moving, so we must have parked at our next tour stop: some old timey theater that’s supposedly haunted. When I peek past the curtain into the aisle, everyone else is still asleep. Of course they are. We just went to bed two hours ago after last night’s show. I release an exhausted sigh and drop back to my pillow. Eh, with the time difference, it’s probably a bad time to call L.A. anyway.
My phone buzzes, and I squint at the bright backing light.
Liberty: Eli!!!! Call me. Please!!!!
Ugh.
On the bus. Give me a second to get somewhere to talk, I type back before she blows up my phone again.
Rubbing my eyes, I force my legs over the edge of my upper level bunk, trying to keep my movements as quiet as possible. I land on the floor with ninja-level stealth, proud of myself for functioning at all at this hour of the morning. Cool air chills my skin, and I pat my bare chest in the dark. Yeah, I’ll need clothing. My mouth feels chalky as well. And a toothbrush. At least mints and a bottle of water. Hell, who knows how long this will take. Might as well grab my overnight bag and brace for a marathon. Liberty doesn’t freak out often, but when she does, it’s monumental.
Chris is leaving.
I think back on her initial text. What does that mean? If it means what I think it does, I’ll need more than an overnight bag. Good thing today is an off-day.
The front lounge of the tour bus is empty, so the driver must have already relocated to his hotel room after our short drive from New York to Philadelphia. I fish around my bag for a t-shirt and shorts, sliding them on in the eerie dark of pre-dawn. Will I finally see what a sunrise looks like? After pulling on my sneakers, I fire off a quick text to Sweeny explaining my sudden departure and warning him not to wait for me. We were supposed to hang out later today, but who knows when I’ll be able to meet up with him now. With the level of angst in Liberty’s messages, I’ll be lucky to get her back from the cliff in time for tomorrow night’s show.
I slip off the bus, cringing at the exit door which suddenly sounds like a jet engine. Is it always that loud? The early morning air is cooler than I expect, and I’m glad I grabbed my hoodie. I yank it over my head and rub the rest of the sleep from my eyes.
The theater looms ahead, dramatic and intimidating against the ominous night sky. There are no signs of activity inside. Will I even be able to get in? I’m not looking forward to a long night of pacing this parking lot if I can’t. The closest door is locked, and I tug at the wrought iron handle a few times as if that will somehow jar it loose. No such luck. There’s another door further over, and I could burst into (quiet) song when that one gives with an angry creak.
Musty, stale air rushes at me when I duck inside. The door clanks shut behind me, and I shudder at the definitive clatter. It’s like I’m a prisoner that’s just been swallowed whole. If this place is haunted, I’m about to find out as I fumble for the flashlight on my phone. Typically, there are plenty of places to hide in the backstage bowels of these venues, but it’s not often I have to fear a corpse or ghost during my search for privacy. My phone vibrates again, and I stop to read another text from Liberty.
Where are you? How long does it take to get off the bus and find a freaking chair???
I roll my eyes and stop moving so I can respond. Looking for a spot now.
Liberty: Well can you call me while you’re looking?
Me: No because I’m in a fucking haunted house with no lights. Just give me a second.
I freeze at movement in my peripheral. Heart pounding, I swing the light toward the blur, forcing air back into my lungs. Just old props and a rack of costumes. More movement on my other side, and I fire the light there. Two glowing eyes flash back at me, and I leap away with a start.
“Shit!” I cry out, crashing into a stack of chairs. Pain spreads through my shoulder, but I ignore it as I try to refocus the light on the eyes. The only thing worse than seeing a ghost is losing sight of said ghost. At least if it’s in front of me, I know it’s not behind me. But I can’t find the sinister glare again. No matter where I shine my light, all I see are more costumes and abandoned furniture. A propped-open door looms ahead, and I breathe a sigh of relief. This must lead to a more modern, recognizable area. A theater that seats five thousand and hosts elite events has to have corresponding amenities somewhere. But not behind this door, apparently. All I find is a dimly lit stairwell when I pull it open all the way.
Well, shit.
I glance behind me toward the dark, creepy storage space and turn back to the illuminated stairs. Lights are more promising, I guess. This is probably a tech entrance that leads to lower-level stage access. It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve had to go down to go up. At the very least, a light means someone else must be down there, and a staff person could point me toward a bathroom or lounge.
I trip on the box supporting the door as I step through, sending it skidding out of view. The door clicks shut in my wake, and I spin back to glare at it. What’s with closing doors in this place? At least I’ve put another barrier between me and ghost-eyes.
I descend the old wooden steps with careful precision, resisting the urge to brace my fingers on the stone walls. Who knows what manner of critter is climbing around in this weird-ass cellar. “Hello?” I call out. My voice echoes down the stairwell, along with the crack of rickety wood with each step. “Anyone down here?”
My stomach drops in disappointment when I reach the landing. More cramped darkness.
More stale air and—shit! More ghosts eyes.
And screaming.
• • •
Marina
A broom. That’s what I hold out in front of me to thwart a possible attack, but when you’re woken up at heaven knows what hour by an intruder, maybe one can be forgiven for turning to a broom for protection.
“Stay back! I know karate!” I lie. I don’t, but the fact that I’m pointing a broom at him means I have zero chance of convincing him I’m armed with something better.
“Whoa! Hey. Just looking for a bathroom or something,” the attacker says, lifting his hands. I can’t make out any distinguishable characteristics in the shadow he forms against the dim lighting of the stairwell. His voice sounds young, my age. His tone, calm and non-threatening, but any criminal worth his salt is going to try to get me to lower my guard with soothing lies. Reaching a trembling hand toward the lamp by my bed, I switch it on and jump back into defensive stance.
The man squints against the lighting assault, and it’s then that I notice his strange attire. A hoodie and gym shorts, messy hair that looks weirdly styled. A hiking pack slung over his shoulder. Is he homeless, maybe? Looking for a place to crash? It wouldn’t be the first vagrant our old theater has attracted. They think because our centuries-old building has lots of small, neglected spaces, no one would mind if they burrowed into one. Wrong. Employees only, asshole.
“You can’t stay here,” I hiss out, pointing my broom at him. “We’re a prestigious theater. This isn’t a homeless shelter.”
The guy flinches in surprise before the side of his mouth curls up in a smirk. I refuse to acknowledge he’s actually kind of cute.
“Really?” he asks. “Prestigious, huh? How prestigious?”
I cross my arms in frustration. Well, as much as you can cross your arms while holding a broom. “Um, excuse me. Not that I have to explain myself to you, but we’ve been operating for over a hundred and fifty years. Currently, our venue can host almost five thousand guests. In fact, Night Shifts Black is playing tomorrow night. They should be rolling in later today.”
The other side of his mouth tips up as well to launch a full-on grin. I resist the urge to swing my broom at his adorably smug face.
“Is that so? Night Shifts Black, wow.”
“Yes! Now, get out of my theater before I call the police!” I step toward him with what I hope is menacing force. The broom looks menacing to me anyway. It’s one of those heavy-duty push ones.
His amused stare travels over me with more infuriating smugness. Does he think I’m not serious? Because I will use this broom. Probably. Maybe. I swing it again anyway.
“Okay, okay. Geez,” he says through a chuckle. Lifting his hands once more, he takes a step back toward the stairs. “Seriously, I was just looking for a place to clean up and make a phone call. Relax.”
“Well, this isn’t a hotel. And don’t tell me to relax in my own home,” I snap back.
His eyes widen as he glances around my tiny apartment. “Wait, you live here?”
“Duh.” I wave at the bed behind me and small sitting area in the corner. There’s a bathroom too, but I’m in no mood for a campus tour. He scans the space slowly, intruding on my privacy yet again. “Out!” I yell, waving my broom.
“Okay! I’m going. Just… wait, do you own this place? The theater, I mean.”
I roll my eyes. When did vagrants get so nosy? “No, of course not. I’m the assistant manager. The owner wanted someone around to watch things, and I needed a place to stay. So here we are.”
“To watch things?”
“Yes, to keep intruders like you out of our building. Now, if we’re finished with this interview, there’s a shelter downtown next to the church.” I point the broom, daring him to challenge me.
And when did vagrants get so arrogant? I almost poke him just for the entertained look on his face, but he turns toward the stairs, and I have no interest in restarting something that’s finally ending. I watch him climb the first few, trying to ignore the fact that his ass is actually really hot in those gym shorts. In fact, so was his hair. And his eyes. And—gah! Whatever. He needs to go find a real shelter and be someone else’s problem.
His footsteps continue up the stairs, and I don’t lower my broom until I’m positive he’s near the top. I’ve just breathed a sigh of relief when I hear it.
My heart stops.
My stomach drops.
But there’s no denying it. As if this situation couldn’t have gotten any worse.
“Uh, miss?” the horribly irritating intruder calls back down to me. “How do you open this door?”
Eli
“You closed it?!” comes a shrieked reply from below. Yep, there’s no chance I come out of this situation without getting clobbered by a broom.
“Not on purpose,” I call back. “I tripped on that stupid box, and it closed by itself.” I start down the stairs, not interested in shouting the rest of this conversation while surrounded by weird wall spiders.
She’s waiting at the bottom, her eyes the size of guitar picks as she fires optical venom at me.
“Look, I’m sorry. Like I said, I tripped and—”
“Did it ever occur to you to—I don’t know—not break into someone’s apartment in the first place?”
I study her livid form, trying so hard to keep a straight face. But come on, the broom? Her small clenched fists that look ready to pound my face? Her self-righteous love of this old theater… it’s all too much. She reminds me of a young, cute version of my Great Aunt Mabel. Except Aunt Mabel probably doesn’t prance around in a skimpy sleep top and underwear. I shudder at the thought and focus back on the much more enticing image in front of me.
“It’s fine,” I say in a calm voice. “Just grab the key or whatever, and I’ll get out of your hair. I’ll even wait over here.” I cross to an old ratty chair and drop onto the decayed cushion.
Her attention follows me in disbelief, her cute lips hanging slightly open. I think I do an admirable job of not acknowledging her sexy sleep outfit that I really have no right to be seeing.
“Oh, sure. Let me just go grab that hundred-year-old key I don’t have and shove it in the hundred-year-old lock on the other side of the door.”
I flinch and straighten in the chair. “Wait, you mean…”
“That’s right, genius. We’re stuck down here!” she finishes for me.
I blow out my breath and collapse back against the cushion. Also, she needs to stop glaring at me like I’m the idiot. She’s the one who lives in an apartment that doesn’t have a legit fucking door.
“Okaaay,” I draw out, trying to keep my own temper in check. Lashing out gets us nowhere. I lift my hips to pull my phone from my pocket.
“Won’t work,” she quips.
“What won’t?”
“Your phone. No service down here.”
I shake my head. No. Because. No. I glance down at my screen and—shit.
“Told you.” She wedges her fists on her almost-bare hips, channeling the sexy version of Aunt Mabel again as she glares at me. She really needs to put pants on because this is getting difficult and so freaking confusing. But her facial expression screws into curious more than furious the longer she stares at me. Hopefully it’s not because she suspects I keep picturing her as a hot old lady.
“How are you so calm right now?” she snaps. Nope. Thank god.
I shrug. “What do you want me to do? Tell you it’s incredibly stupid and unsafe to live in a place that can so easily be locked from the outside? Because it is. This?”—I wave my hand around the room—“Total fire hazard.” Her eyes widen, flaring hot again. “Yep, and now that that’s out, so what?” I continue quickly, my voice steady despite the small embers of panic emerging deep in my gut. I force them away. “We’re still stuck. Upsetting you by pointing out the obvious doesn’t help me at all.”
“Oh, it doesn’t help you. I see. So now this is all about you?”
“Isn’t it?”
I push up from the chair and swipe my bag off the floor. “Well, if we’re going to be here for a while, mind if I clean up a bit? That looks like a bathroom over there.”
“It is… but!”
I stall my retreat, waiting for the rest of whatever she’s got firing in that cute old lady brain. My smile ticks up further when nothing comes out. Yep, that’s what I thought. I continue to the bathroom while she tracks my every movement with her narrowed stare. But she doesn’t stop me this time. Probably because she realized there’s no reason for her to deny me this tiny indulgence except to be ornery. I wouldn’t put it past her. Gonna be a super-fun day locked up with this one.
The bathroom itself looks about what you’d expect in the seedy basement of an old haunted theater. Probably built when indoor plumbing first became a thing. Its old tiles and fixtures make me picture a dead mob boss or something splayed out in the clawfoot tub. The fact that there is even a bathroom down here has my blood running cold. Let’s see, an old creepy door that locks from the outside? A bathroom and small living space below? This isn’t an apartment. It’s the scene of every true crime kidnapping show. Will there be camera crews packed in here in a year or so? Some overzealous voiceover reciting details the investigators pulled together from the grisly remains they found a week after Eli Blake went missing. Hopefully, they think I was held at gunpoint, not broom-point. Sweeny would never stop laughing if that fact came out. Man, I’m gonna haunt his ass so hard.
I take my time with my cleanup. Rinsing my face with handfuls of cold water. Brushing my teeth with extra precision. There’s no shower in here, but the tub has one of those long sprayer things. So far I haven’t seen any evidence of warm water, however, so I opt for some deodorant and a spray of cologne from my bag instead. If this thing spreads into documentary level imprisonment, maybe I’ll brave the shower at a later time.
My Night with a Rockstar Page 29