Rock Her Hard: An Alpha Male Rockstar Romance (Rock Her Series Book 1)

by Alyson Hale

  ROCK HER HARD

  Rock Her Series #1

  By Alyson Hale

  ROCK HER HARD

  Copyright © 2017 by Alyson Hale.

  All rights reserved.

  First Print Edition: March 2017

  Fatebound Publishing

  www.facebook.com/fateboundpublishing

  ISBN-13: 978-1542943611

  ISBN-10: 1542943612

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead— is entirely coincidental.

  NOTE: This book is not intended for readers under the age of eighteen.

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  Kyri

  I lug the last few grocery bags into the kitchen, sweat beading in my pores from the August heat. Summer in Georgia feels like being cursed to the seventh layer of hell. The air outside is thick with moisture and there’s no breeze, so there’s nowhere to hide except inside an air-conditioned house. The first thing I’m doing once I write a bestselling novel? Moving up north.

  Rushing over to the kitchen window, I jack up the power on the air conditioning unit, kneel down, and release a long sigh when the icy wind blows over my face. It may be old-fashioned of us not to have central air and heating, but on days like this, I’m glad I can get the instant gratification of adjusting the air to blow as hard and as long as I want in my direction.

  After my internal temperature returns to normal, I rush over to the grocery bags I dumped by the door and load the cold stuff into the freezer. When I squeeze a tub of Ben & Jerry’s I treated myself to, I realize it’s already half melted. Taking a spoon out of a nearby drawer, I open the tub and treat myself to a couple of melted ice cream bites. The richness of the brownie and chocolate ice cream swirls around my tongue and I moan, feeling refreshed. In my opinion, the only way to eat ice cream is when it’s slightly melted. It’s so rich and creamy. Much better than digging your spoon into a frozen rock and sticking a block of ice into your mouth.

  When I’ve finally loaded the last item into the fridge, I decide to get started on dinner so Mom won’t have to worry about it tonight. Monday nights are always the hardest for her. She’s exhausted from a long day of cutting hair and knows she has four more days to look forward to in the week. Dinner is just one thing off her back to keep her smiling and willing to keep letting me live here. Plus, I really like having a say in what we eat on the suckiest night that ever was invented. Monday nights really are the devil. Why are they not illegal yet?

  I flip on our small kitchen TV, take out a cutting board, and start dicing tomatoes. Glancing at the clock, I see that it’s only four-thirty, which means I have plenty of time to get this lasagna going. The MTV channel is on, so I listen intently to the latest music news, wondering why I care so damn much about musicians and their lives. It’s just been a draw for me ever since I was young. I love the lifestyle and drive of a rock star. Some of the book boyfriends I write are drool-worthy rocker boys with filthy mouths and even filthier imaginations. They hold a special place in my heart, though the bad boy billionaires and cowboys certainly appeal to me, too.

  I shouldn’t be attracted to rock stars. That’s what Dad left us to become twelve years ago. But I just can’t help it. They’re so…bad. It’s such a turn-on how they’re always misbehaving and not giving a fuck who cares about it.

  Right now, there’s a segment playing about the British rock band, Filthy Bangers. Those dirty Brits are beyond delicious, especially the lead singer, Jace Hawthorne. The man is gorgeous in a black jacket, white collared shirt, and distressed jeans. His plump lower lip, amber eyes, and thick, slightly curled brown hair hang like a storm cloud over my dream world. Jace inspired a book character I wrote last year which ended up being my favorite. If I ever met him in person, I think I would fall over and die of pure happiness.

  I turn the TV volume up, my mind filling with sinful fantasies while I create my special lasagna sauce. In my mind, I’m nibbling on Jace’s lower lip and his tongue is darting out to meet mine while I’m mixing together the sauce. My hips rock against the cabinet as I imagine him inching his hands down toward my generous ass. Moaning deeply, I see myself reaching up into his hair and losing my fingers in his luscious, irresistible locks.

  I lose myself so much that I almost forget what I’m doing until the smell of basil and ricotta cheese wafts up to greet my nose. Jerking back to reality, I finish my sauce and cheese mixture and layer the lasagna, trying to keep my mind on the task at hand even though I can still hear the deep rumble of Jace’s voice echoing off the walls of my mind.

  Once my lasagna is in the oven, I head over to my writing corner and sit at my desk, which is littered with memos and character descriptions. Powering up my laptop, I lean back in my office chair and close my eyes, relishing the peace and quiet. I love the people I work with in the mall, but Planet Slushie is much too loud a workplace for my introverted self. Working there has really helped us afford our grocery bill and helped me pay my “rent” to Mom, but I can’t wait to stop working there and focus on what I love to do. I’m going to have to figure out some way to make big bucks off my writing so I can retreat to my cave every day, tune out the world, and focus on my book boyfriends. Real boyfriends are too much hassle. I don’t really want one anymore. The ones I had in the past ended up being total douchebags, which is what drove me into the waiting arms of my book boys in the first place.

  I’ve just logged in to my Windows profile when a knock comes at the front door.

  What the…

  I turn in my swivel chair toward the front door. Mom’s not due home yet, and she wouldn’t knock, anyway. Who’s at our front door at this time of day?

  Sweating, I circle the faded pink couch and look through the peephole of our front door. It’s broken, so it’s hard to see out of it, but I can discern the person’s skin is brown and her lips are bright cherry red. A smile splits my face. I make quick work of unlocking the multiple bolts on the front door and fling it open.

  My best friend Alex has finally returned from a long summer of backpacking across Europe.

  Lucky bitch.

  Before I can take the time to absorb her new cultured appearance, she slingshots into my arms.

  “Ky!” Alex squeezes me within an inch of my life. “God, I missed you so much.”

  I crush her in my embrace. “I missed you too…asshole.”

  She leans back and mock-glowers at me. “Stop being a green monster, you jea
lous hoe.”

  I throw a playful punch into her shoulder. “You know you were supposed to wait for me. I’m still bitter about that, and I always will be.”

  Alex’s adorable giggle bubbles up from her belly. She has no trouble getting guys due to her perfect hourglass figure and winning smile. Being prettier than a model seems to be everyone’s lot in life except mine. At least my book boyfriends think my size fourteen body is ideal.

  “Yeah, well, it would have been a lot more fun if you were there, so trust me, I won’t be making that mistake again. Can I come in, or are you going to lock me outside and not let me taste that lasagna I smell cooking as revenge?”

  I pull back inside the house and pretend I’m about to shut the door in her face. Alex catches the door with her hand and a face-off ensues. She tries to dart around me, but I manage to block her entry with my wide hips. Alex falls on her knees on the doorstep and folds her chocolate hands in front of her gorgeous, sculpted face to beg.

  “Please, please, please? You know you make the best lasagna ever.” Her big doe-eyed gaze darts to the side, then back up at me. “Don’t tell my momma I said that.”

  Giggling, I concede and angle myself sideways so she can pass through. After she’s in and I’ve closed the front door again, I smother her in another hug. “Don’t ever leave me again.”

  “I told you I won’t.” Her tight grip around my shoulders assures me of her promise. We let each other go and sink into the ancient, dusty couch, and my fat grey striped cat Sammy jumps up onto my lap. He kneads my jeans and purrs as he settles onto me. I don’t know where he’s been hiding up until this moment, but I’m glad our little trio is back together again. Whenever Alex and I hang out, it’s always the two of us and Sammy. Sitting on this couch without him would feel incomplete.

  While we’re waiting for Mom to get off work, I get filled in on all of Alex’s great adventures in Europe…and all the European boys she fucked while she was over there. Alex has no boundaries when it comes to who she’ll sleep with. If he has a big cock and a condom, it’s fair game. Apparently, the grand total was nine in London, twelve in Paris, five in Rome, and seven cumulative in other places. Personally, the thought of tasting that many guys over the course of one summer makes me gag, but whatever makes her happy. She had a rough childhood, even rougher than mine, so seeing her enjoying life makes me smile. I’m glad she got to go before me, even though I’m dragging her ass back there in a few years when I can afford it.

  When the oven timer chimes, I take the lasagna out and cover it, then get started on preparing Caesar salad. Alex helps me by washing and cutting the hearts of romaine. After she drains the water out of the leaves, she puts them in a bowl and I sprinkle shredded Parmesan cheese and croutons over them. We wait on the dressing since we all like different amounts and we don’t want the lettuce to get soggy.

  Finally, around five-thirty, I hear Mom’s car pull up, so I get the garlic bread prepared and into the oven. Smells of fresh minced garlic and butter permeate the room, making our mouths water. As soon as Mom steps into the house, I hear her scratching her work shoes on the mat in front of the door and taking in a long breath through the nostrils.

  “Ohhh, honey. That smells incredible. Let me get changed and I’ll be right in.” She pokes her bright red head in the door and sees Alex. Her pretty face wrinkles into a smile. “Well look what the European Shorthair dragged in!”

  Alex and I burst into giggles. Mom is even more of a cat nerd than I am. “It’s great to be home, Ms. Calloway,” Alex says as she clicks across the tile in her steep red stilettos to give her a hug.

  “How many times have I asked you to call me ‘Mom’?”

  “My momma would kill me,” Alex says in a strained voice. Mom tends to squeeze the life out of her. Alex is like a fourth family member in this house.

  Chuckling, Mom presses a quick kiss to Alex’s cheek and pulls back to examine her. “You look happy. I assume the trip was a success?”

  “It was amazing,” Alex gushes with a bright smile. “I’ll tell you all about it at dinner.”

  “Great. Be right back!” Mom practically sprints down the hall to her bedroom.

  Alex and I prepare the table, and when Mom gets back, we say our ritual grace and dig in. The conversation revolves around Alex at first, who tells Mom a tamer version of the stories she told me. Then Mom asks what Alex is up to now, and she tells us she’s going to be hardcore looking for a job now that she’s spent all her money traipsing across Europe.

  “Hey Ky, you should apply as a waitress at the pub I’m applying to tomorrow.” Alex chomps down loudly on a piece of garlic bread. “Then you’d have exposure to a kitchen and drinks and you’d know for sure if you want to be a chef or not.”

  “Hey, that’s a great idea!” Mom beams and grabs my arm with her slightly greasy hand. I cringe and pull away gently. They’re always trying to encourage me to pursue cooking instead of my writing, since it’s a job that actually could pay decently. No one seems to realize being an author is my soul. I couldn’t breathe if I had to constantly juggle that with something else.

  “I don’t think that’s ‘me.’ I’m not the waitress type,” I protest.

  “You’re the perfect type. Come on, please? I’d have a lot more confidence if you applied with me.” Alex pooches out her lower lip and gives me big brown puppy eyes.

  My eyes twitch from the force with which I’m rolling them. “Fine, I’ll come and be your moral support. But I’m not promising anything.”

  “Yay!” Alex throws her arms around me, and we giggle into each other. “I’m so glad to have my bestie back again.”

  “Me too.” I smile, pat her on the shoulder, and push her away so she’ll stop interrupting my meal. I love Mom and Alex, but sometimes I think I might love food just a little bit more. After all, big girls gotta eat.

  Chapter 2

  Jace

  Covington, Georgia. This is definitely not where I thought I’d be going at the end of our first world tour as a band. The hot moisture in the air alone would be enough to keep me from this fucking dreadful place, but the mosquitoes certainly aren’t helping this state’s chances of us returning for a visit.

  Sitting outside our trailers for a cookout was Connor’s idea. I’m willing to bet he’s regretting this shit now. Drummers are accustomed to being drenched in sweat, but this is too much, even for him. Even our little portable grill seems on the verge of exploding with all our bratwurst slung haphazardly over the grill bars. I’m beginning to miss cloudy, dreary London days. I want my loft apartment and my comfortable bed. Most of all, I want to shut out all life except mine and just be alone for a minimum of six weeks. My hearing is shot and my body seems to vibrate without end. Concert life is the life for me, but even Jace Hawthorne needs a good, long break now and then.

  My mobile vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and see message after message from some horny woman I fucked on tour who somehow managed to get my number. My stomach churns. I toss the phone down on the ground and scowl into the burning coals of the grill. I never thought I could get sick of being a virtual woman magnet, but I can no longer stand this fuckery. Coming home to an empty trailer every night with a harpy on each arm is the loneliest feeling I’ve ever had. I used to dream about such things, but lately I’ve found I have a new dream.

  When I come home at night, I want to be utterly alone. No more bullshit one-night stands. No awkward goodbyes. No manufactured excuses as to why I can’t call the girl back in the morning. I just want my own bed and my own life. I want my domain to be my domain, and nobody else to taint it.

  I’ve always been bitter, but lately I’m struggling to find a reason to live anymore. I made it. Our songs have made the Top 40 list more often than I can count. We’re going down as one of the most popular rock bands in British history. I’m numb to it all. My parents are still proud and badger me all the time about coming home for a visit. I have nieces and nephews who would love to see me. My grandparen
ts are all still alive. My life could be perfect…idyllic, even.

  So why is it that in a crowd of people, I still feel like the last motherfucker on earth? And a part of me wishes that could become a reality?

  Our manager, Rick, comes to sit by us at the grill. He’s the cocksucker that brought us here in the first place on a personal errand. If he hadn’t made us the sensation we are today, we never would have considered it, but we owe him. The man sacrificed everything he had to become a band manager and he’s the best in the business. We promised him we’d give him his best chance at getting his family back.

  Connor takes our bratwurst off the grill and seasons them with mustard. As we’re all munching on our dinner, Rick tells us about his plan to get his girls back.

  “As you all know, my ex-wife Becky and my daughter Kyri live here. Elyza is away, unfortunately. I heard it from a cashier in a gas station who went to high school with her. I have a picture from Facebook of Becky and Kyri, though. Can I show it to you?”

  “Yeah, sure,” all of us mumble. He passes his mobile around the circle to Connor, then to Eddie, our bassist, and then the unfortunate device ends up in the pervish hands of Damien.

  Damien grins his approval at the sight of Rick’s daughter. “Leave it to me, Rick. I’ll see to it that at least one of them comes on the road with us.”

  Rick’s furry salt-and-pepper eyebrow pulls up in disapproval. “Shut your mouth, Demon, before I shut it for you. Pass it on to Jace. I know he’ll treat her with respect.”

  Damien rolls his eyes and passes the mobile to me without making eye contact. “Oi, manager’s pet.”

  I accept the phone, expecting to see an ugly female version of Rick since Damien would fuck anything that moved. I’m not prepared for the vise that squeezes around my chest at the mere sight of Kyri Calloway.

  Long, waved auburn hair, clear green eyes, a slender nose, and well-shaped, plush lips. Her frame is generous and curved to perfection. My eyes are immediately drawn to her chest, which seems to go on forever into a cinched waist that’s the perfect size for my arms. She reminds me of an Irish pin-up girl. What really captures my attention is the humorous sparkle in her eye. She’s got a secret, and fuck if I don’t want to dig deep inside her and learn what it is.