by Susan Arden
Rock Into Me
Susan Arden
Sweet-N-Spicy Tales
Rock Into Me
Series: Rule Breakers, Hate-Lve Stories Book 1
Copyright © Susan Arden
Published: June 2013
SWEET-N-SPICY TALES
The right of Susan Arden to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.
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Find out more about the author and upcoming books online at http://www.susanarden.com or Twitter: @romancebysusan
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Blog: http://susanarden.blogspot.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
Doug Taylor, my best friend and husband, listening with an open heart. Nicole Barajas, thank you for your patience and letting me ask you question after question, tapping into for your musical knowledge.
To all the readers who stuck made this journey with me, thank you.
We did a Brit this time and my sincere thanks to Julia Gibbs (Twitter @ProofreadJulia) for the first read and edit.
No writer can do without the necessary editing skills. Lucky for me, I met this lady, Barbara Gibbs([email protected]). Thank you for being the last set of eyes and the amazing proofing of this story (along with the others).
To Jim, over at JimandZetta formatting—thank you.
Chapter One
Alana held the microphone out toward the audience, amplifying the applause already palpable in her body, ricocheting in her racing heartbeat. The dizzying result left her with a mad adrenaline rush. A blitzkrieg to her senses.
The back of her throat burned. She powered on through the final lyrics, refusing to care, with the storm of cheering and eardrum-piercing whistles tonight. Pushing the envelope, she’d hit and held notes somewhere near the stratosphere, sending her pulse into orbit, and leaving her feeling giddy.
The revolving lights swirled beams of fuchsia, yellow, and blue, casting a rainbow over the stage. Alana flashed a peace sign at the crowd and threw scads of kisses after finishing the band’s latest rock ballad. Wiping the droplets of sweat from her brow, she replaced the microphone on the stand while a fresh stream of perspiration dripped down between her breasts. The energy in the room buoyed her spirits, and even her pinched toes hurt less.
Plastering a vivacious—albeit well-practiced—smile on her face, she waved to the crowd. The audience continued to applaud, whistle, and hoot. She inhaled, trying to make out the hazy shadows in the glaring light, and smiled brighter at the persistent chanting.
Someone yelled out, “Orion rocks!” Her heartbeat soared higher. For years, no one had known of the band, and this summer things had started to happen. Fast. Bookings, promos, radio spots, and their songs were getting serious airtime.
The fans were going wild but, truthfully, she was clueless about who was out in the audience tonight. Her name was yelled. Repeatedly. This time, a man’s voice rose above the clamor. “Alana, baby, sing another song!”
A dozen stage lights overhead broiled her skin. Wearing a gold lamé dress and thigh-high crème calfskin boots, she fantasized about diving into the pool back at the hotel. She blew a kiss into the sharp glare, having learned that she should never hold up her hand to shield her eyes. If the audience found out she couldn’t see them, their response tended to stagnate.
Alana directed her gaze down into the only section of the audience where she could make direct eye contact. Crowded tables were only feet in front of the stage. If she wasn’t careful, this was also the section that could peer up her dress. It was a fine line she walked; getting too close to the edge tonight, she’d unwittingly showed more flesh than she’d intended.
The clapping and stamping had gotten livelier over the last few seconds, so loud it reverberated in her chest. A cloud lifted and her nervousness abated. She laughed wholeheartedly. Her smile grew more and more genuine with the thunderous reception unfolding before the band. Her wide grin worked the muscles in her cheeks. The infectious response from the audience was exhilarating, leaving her encased in a bubble, with a captivating social contact high.
Alana scanned the front row of tables, waving to the smiling people who returned her stage affection. Her flitting gaze snagged on a pair of dark eyes. Her gaze swam over a chiseled, masculine face that made her breath catch. The man returned her stare. Their gazes didn’t casually connect—more like snapped and locked, detonating a jolt to her stomach. Talk about gorgeous. The guy seated in the first row was some version of Gentlemen’s Quarterly-handsome. Unlike the rest of the fans, he appeared less than enthralled to be seated in front of her. If anything, GQ looked like he was in agony.
Her smile faltered. The man cocked an eyebrow and solemnly shook his head. He had to be responding to the person next to him. But why did he continue staring up at her? And in such a punitive manner, as though she was doing something offensive…to him?
Alana glanced away from him, hoping to shake the disconcerting effect. The image of his expression seared her memory, harshly lingered, and threatened to deflate her mood. Definitely, he was raining on her party. Scanning the other tables, she refused to allow the occupant of a single seat to suck the effervescence from the place. Not when the applause continued, ramping up and becoming deafening. No way could they begin their next song, featuring a new a cappella intro with her and Christy singing a duet.
Shaken, Alana motioned to Hank, mouthing on ten. The crowd had totally eaten up Animal Lust, their last song. He nodded, and hand-signaled to Carl and Christy to wait ten seconds before he’d tap the count for the next song.
She walked over to Billy, the lead on guitar. “We’ll give them ten seconds.”
Billy nodded and went to his amp, pumping the pedal to make some minor feedback adjustments.
This was the time to work the crowd. She stole a furtive glance at GQ and, wouldn’t you know it, he was still staring back, only now his arms were crossed over his chest. She gripped the microphone, refusing to be undone by one guy. Gorgeous or not.
“Are you good and hot now?” Alana purred into the microphone. She let loose the low sultry laugh she was known for and said, “’Cause I know I am.” This was the intro to their next song, Good and Hot. Glancing back, she stuck her tongue out at Christy.
Christy mouthed, “Work it!”
Alana nodded and began clapping her hands over her head, sidling up to Christy, who stroked a few chords playing backup guitar. She slipped her arm around her best friend, hugging her for a second. The crowd whistled wildly.
Hank tapped his drumsticks, “One, two…one, two, three.”
She and Christy proceeded to slowly hum, rocking their bodies to the winding guitar strings steadily strummed on Billy’s black Schecter. The rhythmic beat on the drum grew
louder. Orion ramped up the energy with a fast-flying shredding of notes until Billy struck the defining power-chord of the song. They exchanged nods, Alana sucked in a deep breath, and they belted out the first line. Their voices wove together, melding in harmony, and goose bumps spread over Alana’s body.
Christy’s dark hair framed her face, making her light blue eyes sparkle, and the scent of spearmint washed over Alana. This was their dream. Their moment. And they sang together, blending their voices, using the lyrics while shaping and reshaping musical notes. Tonight they sang louder than normal to settle the crowd.
But hey, they had a rocking crowd, and this was what playing live was all about. Whipping up the energy, then harnessing it, and maintaining the audience’s response. As the lead vocalist it was Alana’s job to stage the songs, her job to sense when it was time to give the audience some headroom, and her job to know when things might be getting out of control.
She faced Christy and held the mic between them. Christy smiled back at her, her guitar hanging off her petite body from a glittery pink strap, and they met each other note for note. They’d worked on the harmonies for years, ever since high school, so that their voices melded together to create a warm, rich rock tone.
Alana told herself, don’t do it. Too late. She let her gaze slide on over to GQ, and his pinched brows screamed louder than the stage speakers. He sat with his head cocked and his ballbuster expression lit from the stage lighting.
To show him how unaffected she was by GQ’s demeanor, she inhaled and tensed her body, preparing to forcefully sing next and final a capella lyric, signaling the band to begin to play.
“Go get ‘em!” Christy yelled.
Alana squeezed her friend and took a step backward, then they danced away from each other.
She reluctantly wound her way toward the front of the stage, dismayed to be standing only feet away from the only disgruntled person in the place.
Playing in the City Basement had been a fluke. A last-minute cancellation by a band, and the owner had to fill the vacancy. Thank goodness, she and Christy had stopped by the place, trying to book a spot in the lineup for the next week. Orion, their band for the last three years, was booked around Nashville for a two-week battle of the bands; they still wanted a chance to shine in Music City and so continued to search out venues. She and Christy had canvassed the clubs off Demonbreun, patrolling on foot in the summer sun with huge hangovers. Each night so far, they’d performed and then bar-hopped or attended an after-party. Last night they’d gone to an after-after-party, getting back to the hotel well after sunrise.
Harvey Stiles was about to say, ‘No,’ when Christy conveniently dropped her pen and bent over in her micro-mini skirt, knowing full well that the owner needed some visual encouragement. She was a complete promo-whore insofar as knowing how to sport her incredible figure to the band’s benefit. To Christy, it was ‘all-is-fair-in-booking a gig’ and what her six-foot-four boyfriend didn’t know supposedly wouldn’t hurt him. She never actually let anyone put their hands on her, but she worked the person over with her seductive power real good. Heaven help her if one day someone called her bluff.
Orion finished the set, and Alana coughed, a tickle that had begun in the back of her throat blossoming into an irritating ache. She bent and retrieved her bottle of water, sipping, but nothing relieved the sting in her throat. The band collectively waved to the audience. It was all for show because they’d return on stage for the customary encore number. The last number was their most popular song and Billy demanded they leave it to last. He’d said, “Give them something to remember us.”
At the edge of the stage, just beyond the curtains, she stood next to Christy, checking out the first row. “Hey, did you happen to notice any weird fans tonight?” Alana said, pushing back her sweaty bangs plastered to her forehead.
“Weird, as in totally loving us? This is a change. I bet Harvey is gonna ask us back. He’ll pay, though. We basically did this set for free. The bastard. But not the next one. I’ll crank it to him good.” She grinned a perfect ‘four-years-of-wearing-braces-and-still-sleeping-with-a-retainer’ smile.
“Christy, no. Different. Like someone who thought we…”
“We what? Stunk?” Christy snorted. “As if.”
She nodded. “Exactly. Crazy. Right?”
“Is this a joke? Ya know, we seriously rocked our asses off, and listen to them. We own them. Man or woman, they want us. And not just our bodies. Our voices. Our music. Our fucking souls. This is the reason we huff it on that rat trap of a bus for half the year. Alana, so far Nashville has shown us some genuine love.”
Alana pulled Christy’s arm, bringing her to the edge of the curtain, and she pulled the ancient crimson velvet material back. “Him. He looks as though someone is pinching him.”
“He looks a-fucking-mazing. Holy shit. I think that dude is Lansing.”
Billy shouted out to them, “Let’s go! Christy, now!”
Alana held onto her friend. “Who is Lansing?”
Christy stared at her, scrunching up her nose. “I’m not about to be late for an encore. Billy will have my ass. And I do mean that literally. He starts off with twenty smacks for shit like this. Come on.”
She spun on her heel, and marched behind her boyfriend. “Way too much information, girlfriend,” Alana shouted at the back of Christy’s head.
Up ahead Christy shrugged, tapping her tiny rear-end, and then knelt to pick up her guitar. The crowd stood, from what Alana could tell of the first couple of rows, but it took GQ a lifetime to rise. He looked from one side to the other as if he might find others who had opted to remain seated. Alana fumed. Absolutely fumed inside. She hoped to God that, afterwards, she would run into him. If she did, she fully intended on schooling in him audience etiquette.
Lansing whoever. When she looked at him, she only saw a jerk. Well, what goes around, she mused. She vowed to take his level of discomfort up several more. The venue was rather intimate, in the basement of an old bar from Nashville’s heyday. The stage was set perhaps three feet above the crowd. Their last song was a bluesy little number that rocked the Billboard charts. The song that got them noticed six months ago, and was still being played heavily.
Alana danced while the band played the intro. The music sounded soulful, low, and melodic, and it was easy to get lost in the sensuous notes. She swayed her hips, pivoting them in a figure-eight, and lifted her arms, letting her shoulders go liquid. The years of taking Spanish dance lessons came back to her as she let her arms snake and coil through the air.
The crowd was whistling, feet were stomping, and for a few seconds Alana was swept away by the beat pounding throughout her body. The effect was liberating, and liquefying. She danced, free from her mother’s expectations that she’d be a famous opera sensation. She moved with the glee-filled room. Fun-loving people out for a rip-roaring time, not dealing with her father’s illness, something so devastating to her family and something she was powerless to change.
Even though her dress edged up her thighs, she moved undaunted as she danced her exasperation away. For years she’d put up with her mother’s disappointment, and now it seemed like the band was going to get a break. This town and this moment should be framed in a sweet memory, not some bitter pill of a man who stared up at her with dissatisfaction.
Dancing on stage, the only thing that Alana desired was to prove GQ wrong and make certain he noticed her. She glanced in his direction under her lashes and, oh yeah. Pay day. His gaze traveled down her body; the type of burning she noted in his eyes no longer resembled a man sitting on pieces of broken glass. Everyone in his row was dancing. He scrubbed his hand over his parched expression. He appeared very much in need of a glass of water. Hell, a whole bucket. With ice.
Well, good. She stopped moving, and stomped her feet into a wide stance. Inhaling, Alana sang the first verse, staring straight into GQ’s smoldering eyes. As the last song, it was time to draw a line in the sand. He’d tormented her for s
ix songs, and brother, now it was her turn.
Every other person up and down that aisle smiled broadly up at her. All but one. So she grabbed the mic and unhinged it, singing her part just for him. The one jackass in the place. She walked to the edge of the stage, one hand on her hip, and the other holding the microphone, never breaking eye contact with GQ.
If only she could stand right in front of him. Then she’d see who blinked first. The floor wasn’t that far from the stage, but in five-inch heels she couldn’t jump off. This itty-bitty dress would hardly do well in body-surfing the crowd. As she sang and moved, everyone’s attention followed her. By singing to GQ, she condensed the audience to him as the one focal point in the room. The words of the song caressed her lips and she contemplated him. His thick, dark hair was a mess—really rocking wild style. And the way his white, oxford button-down shirt fit hardly seemed fair. His broad, muscular shoulders and a tease of dark chest hair peeking out had her leaning over, and her mind blanked for a second. Chorus. Sing the chorus, a voice inside her said.
Cat calls erupted and she realized her neckline had fallen away from her chest, revealing a clear view of her cleavage. Rapidly, she popped upright, heat blossoming across her face. GQ arched a brow up at her. She studied his angular cheekbones and mouth. His square jaw with a few days of stubble gave him a rugged, sexy appearance. Not the type of man who was easily swayed she suspected.
Alana sang the final verse, and the applause erupted. The other band members came to the front of the stage and they all waved. She gazed back at the man. The breath stilled in her chest. GQ was gone. She scanned down the row. No white-shirted man. Squinting, she couldn’t see beyond the glare and she bit her lip, casting a glance at the other band members. Hank initiated their exit off the stage, followed by Billy.
Alana turned and raised her hand, waved, and then acted as though she were pushing aside her sweaty bangs and shielded her eyes, silently cursing her weakness. Back against the wall, he leaned sipping a drink, surrounded by a small crowd. He towered over those around him and, even in the darkened room, she could tell he’d been watching the stage by his body position squarely facing her. Their gazes suddenly connected, leaving her breathless. Across the room, the heat from his eyes blazed hotter than the sweltering stage lights.