Her Hi-Fi Hunk: A Beach Avenue Babes Romance

by Knox, Abby

  Her Hi-Fi Hunk

  A Beach Avenue Babes Romance

  Abby Knox

  Copyright © 2019 by Abby Knox

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Edited by Aquila Editing

  Cover Designer: Mayhem Cover Creations

  Dedicated to the goddess on earth, Stevie Nicks, whose music played on repeat while I wrote this.

  Contents

  Her Hi-Fi Hunk

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Abby Knox

  An Excerpt from Abby’s next book…

  Her Hi-Fi Hunk

  Beach Avenue Babes, Part Two

  By Abby Knox

  Rock legend Jed is ready to heal the broken heart that has fueled more No. 1 hits than he can count. But although he shreds on the guitar, he's no player when it comes to women. His destiny simply isn't going to be plucked out of a line of groupies after his latest sold-out show. He is waiting until the time is right to make a play for the one he's admired from afar for years.

  Record store owner Dusty wonders when someone is going to put her little business on the map. Little does she realize the anonymous person who has been helping to keep her store afloat is also a guitar god, for whom women the world over will drop their panties in a heartbeat. Is she ready to accept her fate and all that entails?

  RECORD JACKET DETAILS: The hero is a rock and roll badass but not given to the trappings such as sleeping around. That said, it does have plenty of sexy time, swoony walks on the beach, a mature adult whirlwind relationship, a happy ending and zero cheating. NO CLIFFHANGER, but this is the companion book to Her Vinyl Vixen. Each can be read as a stand-alone. 18 and over please.

  Chapter 1

  Dusty

  2004

  By the time the black Suburbans begin their slow, winding ascent up the mountain, one clueless young mother at the top of the ridge is at her breaking point with commune life.

  That’s me. I am the clueless young mother.

  “I hate broomstick skirts,” I mutter as I hike up my flowing garments between my legs and stuff the hemline into my belt. “Why do the women have to wear the skirts if we have to do all the work around here?”

  The tucking is essential to avoid splashing frigid water onto my clothes during the pre-dawn task of pumping water. Chores suck. But, being off-grid, hand-pumping the water is essential for cooking, drinking, washing dishes, the most basic sanitation. And occasional bathing. Oh yes, we all stink.

  I miss running water. I miss hair dryers. I hate being cold. I need a hot shower. Fuck being off the grid, I think as I work at the rusty metal hand pump at the edge of the camp.

  Everyone else is still asleep, and so I am the first to hear the engines. The noise is so jarring to the peaceful little fossil-fuel-free settlement.

  I peek down the slope of scrubby trees and watch the imposing vehicles snaking slowly up the treacherous, narrow path. Hairs stand up on the back of my neck. Squinting, I can just make out the letters: ATF, FBI, DEA.

  Shit.

  Time to get the hell outta Dodge. I thought I’d have more time to stash away some more cash.

  I drop the ungodly heavy buckets of water, letting the precious water spill onto the scrubby ground. Fuck it.

  I run back to our family tent and silently grab the three most precious possessions: a duffel bag full of money, my seven-year-old daughter Zara, and a pair of eyeglasses.

  The last thing on that list is chosen solely out of spite.

  Who knows, maybe the glasses will turn into a little bit of windfall for Zara’s benefit. If they are the real deal, I could, someday, get a crap ton of money for them on the black market.

  Everything else, I leave behind. Our clothes. Zara’s special blanket. Water. Everything.

  “Mommy, I need my fuzzy blanket.”

  Zara looks pitifully up at me.

  I chew on my lip anxiously for a second. We need to get gone, fast. If we leave right now, we might reach the scrabbly little town down in the valley in time to catch the first bus out this morning. But if I grab Zara and run for it, I risked making a seven year old scream for her blanket and wake the whole camp.

  I squat down to eye level with Zara. “Baby, what I have in this bag will buy you seventeen new special blankets.” Actually, a lot more than seventeen.

  Zara isn’t hearing it. “Auntie made me that blanket.”

  Auntie. That could be any one of the completely random and not-blood-related women who live with us at the campground, who pass the time knitting, crocheting, weaving—and a lot of other crafty shit that I can never get the hang of.

  I sigh. “Stay quiet and move fast.”

  I wait outside the tent while Zara goes in to fetch her blanket.

  I prayed to whoever will listen that Zara remains quiet enough not to wake Walter.

  Then comes the sound of the gravelly male voice. “What you doin’, girlie girl?”

  Shit. Walter’s awake. I hold my breath and try to stay calm. I listen as Walter and Zara talk back and forth.

  After what feels like a millennium, Zara exits the tent, clutching her blanket to her chest. From inside, Walter makes the all-too-familiar sound of rolling over to go back to sleep.

  The two of us, mother and daughter, descend the mountain on foot, the duffel bag of cash in my left hand, Zara’s hand in the other hand, and the glasses in my pocket.

  Chapter 2

  Jed

  2008

  The gold and purple sunset and the aroma of steaks on the grill always draws me outside without much coaxing, even when I’m in a bad mood.

  Carrying my six-pack of Bud under my arm, I cross through the gate that connects my beachfront property line with that of my friendly neighbors.

  Those neighbors have become great friends over the years to me and Darlene. They have even stuck with me after our recent contentious separation.

  Over the span of my music career, I have seen so many couples in the business get busted up over one thing or another, it makes my head spin; and always, the couples’ friends choose a side. More often than not, they choose the wife. When Darlene moved permanently into our Texas ranch last year, these neighbors stuck by me.

  I can hardly blame Darlene. She is a true, old-school yellow rose of Texas and a decent guitar player in her own right. We’ve been sweethearts since she kicked my ass senior year in the Battle of the Bands competition back at good ol’ Plano Senior High School. I’d rather not say what year. Suffice it to say, I’m fuckin’ old.

&n
bsp; Old enough that if you play my greatest hits online, YouTube will start showing you PSAs on how to recognize the signs of a stroke. Fuck that though; my blood panels are just fine.

  Darlene hates life on the road and always preferred to stay in one place to raise our two boys, Nelson and Watts. On top of that, she hates California, whereas the West Coast lifestyle agrees with me. I’m always up for a bottle of Shiner and a toast to “Texas Forever,” but I’m more of a barefoot beach bum than a boots and longhorns kind of fella.

  The rock and roll paychecks have ensured that she and the boys never have been deprived of a single thing. But once the boys were grown and out of the house, my wife’s patience wore thin. She grew tired of my schedule while I was away, and tired of my face when I was home.

  I look out over the ocean and have the urge to call her. I missed her friendship, even if our marriage wasn’t working.

  But the truth was, I didn’t know if I really wanted her company, or just the company of somebody. There’s still an outside chance that she’ll agree to counseling and we can work this out. I hate the thought of being alone, and I hate the thought of what the media exposure will do to her.

  If our massive waterfront estate on the coast of Santa Barbara, abutting properties of A-list celebrities and business moguls, isn’t enough to keep her here, then certainly my company will not be a draw to bring her here, so there’s no point in calling her right now.

  If the idea of spending time on my married friends’ deck makes me a little sad, it only lasts a while. Pretty soon, the beer, the view, the steaks and the conversation help me forget about my own troubles, if just for one night.

  And then, something magical happens.

  “Hey guys,” I say, “There’s this song that’s been stuck in my head and I can’t name it.”

  “Hum it,” says Marti.

  Neither Galen nor Marti can identify it.

  We three friends go back and forth for several minutes trying to identify the tune.

  Then Marti nudges Galen. “You know who would know?”

  Galen laughs. “Yeah, I think I know who would know. Give her a call.”

  I am intrigued. “Who’re you calling?”

  Marti smiles and whips out her brand new iPhone 3G. “An old friend from high school. Actually, her daughter, to be precise. Total recall when it comes to music.”

  Galen laughs. “Yeah, she’s a little scary though.”

  “I hate cell phones, we can just go inside and use the landline…” I slur, slightly tipsy and about to go on a rant about technology.

  Marti waves me off, “You’re going to need one of these before you know it. They’re amazing.”

  I am ready to reply, but suddenly Marti has someone on the line. “Hi Dusty, it’s me. Our friend here is trying to remember the name of a song and it’s killing all of us. Can Zara help?”

  A moment later, I’m talking on the phone to a small girl who could not be more over this whole entire party trick. I hum a few bars.

  I’m about six notes in and I hear an exasperated sigh, and then she names the song.

  “That’s it!” I exclaim.

  “Super. Can I go now, Ma?”

  I try to thank her, but the little girl’s voice is replaced by that of the girl’s mother, and it throws me for a loop. Not a loop, more like scrambles me like a Texas twister on steroids.

  “Is that all you needed?”

  Whoa.

  Her voice is husky and sweet with an edge, like fine whiskey. A little burn if you’re not prepared for it, but nice and warm going down. That voice cascades all the way down to my darkest corners. It reaches something in me.

  My brain and my cock immediately react in tandem. I am confused by it. I am way too old to get a stiffy just from hearing a woman’s voice on the phone. And too married, dammit. I chalk it up to missing my wife, who, if I’m honest, hasn’t touched my dick in months.

  I clear my throat. A stalling tactic to give myself a second to get my head straight. “Thank you, ma’am. You have a very smart daughter.”

  She chuckles and thanks me for the compliment. Her throaty laugh holds the promise of a female who could appreciate a very dirty joke.

  “As you can see by her attitude, she doesn’t like it when I use her for party tricks. It’s fine, just more fodder for her future therapist. Have a good night.”

  I listen as she hangs up. She has an incredibly sexy way of saying goodnight. I didn’t even have time to tell her who I was.

  Maybe that’s for the best. People always act differently when they realized who I am.

  I briefly think about asking Marti what the story is with Dusty but decide against it. There's no way she is not married or at least seeing somebody.

  Three more beers later, my curiosity gets the better of me.

  “So…what’s the deal with your friend Dusty?”

  Marti and Galen grin at each other.

  Marti sips her white wine and smirked. “Single mom. Runs a little indie record store down in Sea Grove. Why?”

  “No reason.”

  Sea Grove. I like Sea Grove. It's a smaller, quieter, artsier, undiscovered version of Venice Beach. More chill. I’ve never played there, but Willie and I once scored some good shit there, back in the day. I could use some of that good shit about now. Especially now that Darlene isn’t around to fuss at me about my stash.

  Too bad there isn’t any open dates on the tour I’m scheduled to start the next day, or I’d make a stop in Sea Grove to check out the record store.

  When I stumble home that night, I phone my tour manager.

  “I want to make a stop in Sea Grove after LA and before San Diego. Do a little surprise show in a bar somewhere down there.”

  “No can do, Big Daddy. No time.”

  “It’ll be real quick. We can even do it at a local record store, maybe right on the boardwalk. Just me and my guitar. Wouldn’t even need the crew. It would give people a huge thrill, maybe help sell more tickets.”

  “Buddy, you’re sold out everywhere. There’s nothing to gain from that.”

  “Except that it would make me happy.”

  My manager huffs. “The only way to make that happen is to blow off all the interviews and appearances in the 24 hours in between LA and San Diego. And besides that, check your contract. If you perform without your unionized crew at any time during the duration of a tour, you’ll get your ass sued. More importantly, my ass will get sued. Forget about it. You’re drunk, Jed. Get some sleep. Big day tomorrow, in case you forgot.”

  I hang up the phone and roll over on my bed. Fuckin’ asshole. Still, he is covering my ass, I guess.

  Besides all that, I’m down deep an old-fashioned guy. I can’t go chasing tail while I’m still legally married. I mean, I can, and no one would judge me.

  But personally, I can’t get those marriage vows out of my head, you know? On the off chance that maybe things might work out.

  And yet, the other thing I can’t get out of my head is Dusty’s voice.

  So instead of sleeping it off, I get up and fire up my laptop.

  Bingo. She has a website.

  I find out the name of the store and even see an email address to place online orders.

  I suddenly have the need to order the complete collection of The Who on vinyl, and I know exactly who I’m gonna buy from.

  Chapter 3

  Dusty

  Present Day

  The handsome blond hippie is more polite than the usual buskers who play in front of my record store every summer. Usually, the business owners along Beach Avenue in Sea Grove simply tolerate all the street performers, but this one is different.

  This one, Kai, seems to want permission from me.

  We are standing outside of my store, Vinyl Vixen, talking.

  “You can play here as long as you want, as long as you play well. That’s my only condition. Let’s hear it.”

  He plays me a Willie Nelson song. Interesting choice. He seems too young to kn
ow who that is. It’s good. Nice singing voice. Good playing. He’s been doing this for a while.

  “You can stay. Where’d you learn to play like that, by the way?”

  “My aunt Jo,” he says. “She raised me since I was little. Up in Oregon. She didn’t have much, but she always made sure I had whatever creative outlet I wanted.”

  This kid has a story, and I’m gonna dig it out. “I bet she misses you,” I say.

  Kai doesn’t even blink. “I send her half of everything I make. It’s the least I can do.”

  Now my bullshit detector is pinging. So I share a little about myself, just to see if he takes the bait.

  “Zara and I had a difficult journey early on. We came here to start our lives over, so it’s no surprise to me when people come here for different reasons. Her father is a son of a bitch. I’ll leave it at that. In fact, he’s getting out of jail soon, from what I’ve heard. Hasn’t stopped him from getting on social media to harass all my friends and spread misinformation. But overall I’m grateful. Zara has ten times the street smarts that I had at her age. I was pregnant and following my loser boyfriend all the way up a mountain to live off the grid when I was 21. So, street smart and book smart is a combination I definitely cannot take credit for. She got herself through college and now my baby’s coming home. I can’t complain.”

  I watch Kai carefully to see what part of my story piques his interest.