by Jessa James
Rock Me
Jessa James
Contents
Rock Me
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Epilogue
Books by Jessa James
About the Author
Rock Me
By
Jessa James
Rock Me: Copyright © 2017 by Jessa James
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electrical, digital or mechanical including but not limited to photocopying, recording, scanning or by any type of data storage and retrieval system without express, written permission from the author.
Published by Jessa James
James, Jessa
Rock Me
Cover design copyright 2017 by Jessa James, Author
Images/Photo Credit: Romance Novel Covers
Publisher’s Note:
This book was written for an adult audience. The book may contain explicit sexual content. Sexual activities included in this book are strictly fantasies intended for adults and any activities or risks taken by fictional characters within the story are neither endorsed nor encouraged by the author or publisher.
Chapter 1
Kit
Every guy's got a girl that got away. One that rocked his world then fucked up his life. Yeah, I had one. Crystal Kerry. Shit. Just thinking her name was like driving a stake into my heart. Made my balls ache. She'd been perfect. My fucking high school sweetheart. Yeah, sweetheart.
I'd forgotten how fucking crowded New York was and had to cut through all the people on the sidewalk. Shit, it was insane. But, I was a face in a crowd. I wasn't Kit Kaswell, lead singer for Nightbird. I was just a guy lost in a sea of humanity. Thank fuck. My thoughts were on Crystal and I didn't need a fan to grab hold and want a selfie or an autograph across her tits. I wanted to wallow in the one that got away. No, the one I pushed away and crushed, like a tank rolling over a soft, sweet, innocent kitten.
Crystal had been the one. Had been kind and gentle, always a smile for me since the first day of tenth grade. She'd transferred to Whitfield Prep as a scholarship student. Our classmates knew she was from the wrong side of the tracks. Poor. They'd sniffed out her blue-collar background, even though she looked like everyone else in the navy and green school uniform.
It had been hard for her, being new. Being beautiful. All the girls who'd been flirting—and fucking all the guys, suddenly had competition. Not that Crystal ever did anything. Just being pretty was enough. The guys, they called Crystal fresh meat. With her blond hair and pale blue eyes, she was as upper crust looking as everyone else. But unlike her classmates, she didn't know her effect on others. Had no idea she was hot. Not just average hot, that any teenage boy would want to bang, but night after night of wet dreams hot. Or jerking off in the shower just thinking about her perky tits and long legs hot.
That was fine for me to lust after, but not anyone else. Especially not the assholes on the lacrosse team who'd made it their mission to see who'd fuck her first. They'd wanted that scholarship cherry and put bets on it.
I'd shut that shit down fast. My fists landed me with a three-day suspension, but I would have done it again in a heartbeat. No one was going to touch Crystal. No one…but me. She was mine. I knew it the first fucking time I saw her.
My parents had given me hell for getting into the fight. Hell for the suspension. Hell for the hours I spent playing guitar and writing music. I guess I dished it right back. For not being the prodigal son, the future CEO of Bullshit Bluebloods Anonymous, for not being a typical Kaswell. Hell, I'd been born with a silver spoon, but I'd spit it out and grabbed hold of a guitar instead. I'd been the fucking black sheep of the family. Still was. And living in that house after my two older brothers graduated from Whitfield and went on to Ivy League schools, the pressure had been on to measure up.
Whatever. I'd given up the chances for that when I was ten and wanted to take guitar lessons instead of playing Beethoven on the piano. I knew I'd never measure up. It hadn't been worth the effort.
As for Crystal, she'd wanted to succeed at Whitfield. Hell, it had been her chance, her opportunity to get out of the shithole household she had. With a mother who was a doormat to a father who drank too much and held too few jobs, she'd known it was her escape. And she fucking took it. Got A's in all her classes, was valedictorian. She managed to do all this even with me following her around like a lovesick fool. But I loved her, protected her. She was my life and I was so much more than just her boyfriend. I was her best friend. She’d told me everything. Given me everything.
Yeah, she'd taken one look at me and melted. Somehow, by some fucking miracle, she’d fallen in love with my rough edges, the fact that I didn't fit in, didn't give a fuck. She knew I was her protector, that I'd do anything for her. We might've been each other's firsts, but I hadn't taken that scholarship cherry. No. She'd given it to me one night in the back of my pickup. We'd been in love. Even said the words. I’d spilled my guts as she sank down on my lap, naked and wet and too much for my seventeen-year-old body to resist. Crystal and Kit. We were inseparable. I knew I didn’t deserve her. I was a spoiled silver spoon. I had never worked as hard as she had to. She'd been smart, so fucking smart, and I did what I could to keep her safe from the jealous bitches, and away from the jocks that noticed the same things I did. She wasn’t just smart, she’s was gorgeous, all curves and a killer smile.
I was the worst of them all. One quick smile, one hot kiss, and I would do anything she said, including study. And so perhaps she'd fucked me into graduating. Got my grades up so I could get my diploma, and listen to her sweet valedictorian speech. She’d dragged me along in her wake until we were both on our life paths, until she met me one Friday night with the news she'd gotten the scholarship to Stanford, that she was going to give it up for me.
It was then, I knew. I was no good for her. I was a dead end. I wasn't going to college. Hell, my parents had been threatening to cut me off if I went ahead with my plan to make a career in music. And I didn't mean the fucking symphony.
No, Crystal was going places. But not with me. So, I'd cut her loose the only way I knew how. I made sure news spread that I'd fucked Lindsay Mack, that while I took Crystal's virginity, I hadn't given her my heart.
I didn’t touch Lindsay. But Crystal didn’t know that.
My cell rang, bringing me back from the past. I pulled it from my pocket as I weaved around a woman pushing a stroller.
“What?” I barked into the phone.
“The sound check's set for four.” Tia Monroe was a good band manager, but she could be a pain in the ass.
“Fine. I'll be there. Might be a few minutes late.” I had no idea how long I would need if I was going to see Crystal again.
“Late? Why?”
“I have something to do.” Someone to see.
I heard Tia say something else, but I tuned her out. Ended the call. Thought of Crystal. Tia and the band could wait. I'd devoted the past ten years of my life to tour buses and recording studios, they could wait thirty fucking minutes so I could get a glimpse of Crystal again. Knowing we were in the same town brought it all back.
Shit, after ten years it gutted me to remember the look on her face when I'd said what I'd done. What I'd supposedly done. Lindsay Mack had slept her way through our entire class and didn't care if I spread lies. Hell, she'd hated Crystal and was more than happy to strike her down the only way she could.
With tears streaming down her pale cheeks, she'd turned and run away. Ran right out of my life for good. On to Stanford. Graduate
school. And then some. She'd hated me, probably still did, but I could deal. She was too damn good for me, always had been. She could hate me and live her dreams.
She'd done just what she'd set out to do. Succeed. Hell, she'd done that. That was why I stopped in front of the three-story chain book store on Fifth Avenue. She was here for a book signing. I'd lost track of her when she left for California, but just six months ago, I’d turned on the television to see her sitting next to the most famous late night talk show host in the city. The novel she'd written a couple of years ago, had hit the New York Times list, big time. Her story sold in a multi-million-dollar deal and the hottest asshole in Hollywood was sitting next to her, playing the spy-thriller hero she’d dreamed up in her head. Fucker touched her shoulder, flirted with her. And she smiled back, but it was a smile I knew. Brittle. Stressed. So beautiful my cock rose to attention as I watched her, those blue eyes, those pink lips. She blinked, and laughed, made all the right motions for the audience, but I knew Crystal. My girl didn’t like to be the center of attention.
And she was still mine. I knew every inch of her body, how she liked to be touched, kissed, fucked. She was famous. Rich. She was no longer from the wrong side of the tracks. Hell, she made her own fucking tracks.
I was so damn proud of her. What were the chances I'd be in town on tour the same time she was here? When I'd seen her face on a huge-ass billboard, I knew I had to go. I had to see her, to see an expression on her face other than the heartbreak I'd caused her. Those sad eyes, the tears, had haunted me for a decade. I couldn’t let her give up Stanford for me, but that didn’t mean watching her walk away hadn’t ripped my fucking heart out.
The store was huge. Three floors. It was packed with fans wanting a book signed by Crystal. To hear her give a talk about her characters, how she came up with the incredible plot. These people might have read her work, loved it, but I was her biggest fan. Hers. Not her story. Hell, they hadn't walked away from her to save her.
The ground floor was too crowded to get anywhere near her. Hell, I barely made it through the revolving door. The line was long and it snaked and curved. Spotting a stairwell that went to the second floor, I aimed for the balcony where I could look down and get a glimpse of her. I knew from the press photos she still wore her glasses. Still had the blond hair, the gorgeous blue eyes. She'd gotten older, grown from a girl to a woman. Wore make up. Heels, fancy clothes. No prep school uniform or cherry lip gloss.
Settling in, I leaned against the railing to look down. There she was. Fuck, my heart skipped a beat just seeing her again. The first time in ten years. The pictures didn't do her justice. While they showed only the confident woman that wrote that killer book, it hid her personality. The introvert who smiled because she had to. The quiet personality that liked a night in with a movie much better than one surrounded by hundreds of rabid fans.
I saw the tenseness in her shoulders even as she smiled and chatted with fans, signing her autograph over and over again. The sleek hair, the pretty blue dress, the fancy heels. It was all frosting. God, I wanted to strip her bare, to reveal the real Crystal. To find her again, to make her mine once more.
And when she turned to talk with a woman who stood behind the table next to her, perky and bubbly with her red hair and equally red dress, she somehow glanced up. Saw me. As if she knew I was here.
Her eyes widened. Her smile slipped. The pen slipped from her fingers. Those blue fucking eyes held mine and I knew. Like a fucking sucker punch to the gut, she was going to be mine again. I'd walked away once. Ten years ago, I’d had nothing to offer her. I’d let her go.
I couldn’t do it again.
Chapter 2
Crystal
I had no idea so many people would show up. Vi had said it was going to be big, but this? This was almost a mob. And all to see me? God, I wasn't sure if I could smile anymore. No, I wasn't being a bitch about my success. My book had done so much better than I ever imagined. I never expected to get an agent, an agent who sold it to a New York publisher. Hell, an agent who sold the movie rights to one of the top producers in Hollywood. I’d never expected to be sitting on the late show circuit next to one of the hottest actors in the world. The movie was set to be a blockbuster. A stunning, too beautiful to be real, Academy Award winning actress was playing the female lead. My book!
Yeah, I'd wanted to be a writer, but this? This was crazy. I wanted to just get back to my hotel room and take a shower, put on my yoga pants and t-shirt and chill with a good book and a glass of wine. No noise. No smiling. Hell, no contact with anyone. I needed some peace and quiet. The energy of the crowds was overwhelming. The attention literally made me sick to my stomach. And that was one thing that had never changed. Yes, I’d grown up, learned how to deal with public appearances, but that only meant I needed a bubble bath and bottle of wine to save my sanity afterward.
As part of a three-month press tour, all I could do was smile and sign. Make small talk. Smile for selfies. Hug. Touch. Shake hands. My publicist, Vivian, had it all worked out. Thank god. I wouldn't want her job, but she loved taking care of all the crazy details. Of me. Sure, she was on payroll, but she was also my friend. Except for right now, when she handed me another book to sign.
“Almost done,” she whispered. I was about to nod and turn back to the next person in the line when I saw him.
Him.
Holy fuck. Kit Kaswell.
I swear my heart leapt out of my chest. He was looking at me. No, staring so intently I swear I felt it to my core. Kit was here… for me. He wasn't in line, just watching.
Then he gave a slight nod. Nothing more. His dark hair slipped over his forehead. It was longer than when we were in high school, but I'd seen him since then on cover after cover of the gossip magazines. While I'd hit it big with my book, Kit had turned his rock star dreams into reality. From what I'd read in magazines, he'd worked his ass off with his band mates, playing small gigs for years. Then they'd written a song, Angel, the type of song that brought around the major record labels. They signed. Hit the big time. Platinum albums, awards, concerts around the world.
Women. Women in every city, a different one on his arm every night. Wild parties, fucking. It was all described in article after article about the famous Kit Kaswell. I read every word, gobbled it all up, even using a Google search notification to feed the images to me like a junkie. Evidently, I was a masochist. Every image hurt. Every smile, every groupie hanging on his arm. He’d been linked to models and Broadway starlets, fashion designers and other musicians. Every one of them looked up at him the way I used to. He was a god, a fucking sex god. And now, the famous lead singer of Nightbird had made the list of fifty most beautiful people in the world.
Which was just stupid. There wasn’t a man alive sexier than Kit.
I shouldn't have cared. He'd ripped my heart out. God, it started with Lindsay Mack during the summer after graduation and he hadn't stopped fucking since. No, he'd started with me, then dumped me for bigger boobs, shorter skirts, looser morals. In the ten years since I'd seen him last, he'd gone through hundreds of women while I could count my sexual experiences on one hand, with a few fingers still folded down.
No man had every measured up to Kit. God, we'd been fumbling teenagers that first time in the back of his truck. It had hurt like hell, but he'd made it good, been patient and gentle even though I knew he'd wanted to just fuck. And after that, we'd gone at it like rabbits, always making sure I came first. He knew just how to set me off. It had been hot, but it had been special. He'd made me feel pretty. Wanted. Protected. Loved.
Lies. Lies. Lies.
But then it all came crashing down. I hadn't been enough for him. He'd ripped my heart out with a ruthless precision I’d come to expect from my most vicious female classmates. No one could do cruel like the rich bitches at our prep school. I'd fallen in love with him because he'd been different, but no. In the end, he’d followed in the family footsteps after all. Fuck all for money, fame and success.
>
I'd gone to Stanford on a full ride, heartbroken and alone. I'd studied to block the pain of his rejection, his affair. But then he'd taunted me by becoming famous. His face was everywhere. The songs he used to sing to me in the back of his truck were on the radio. I hadn't been able to avoid him no matter where I went. By then, I'd put a wall around my heart so thick nothing got through. No one with a penis was allowed into my heart. I’d turned into a cold, merciless bitch. Hell, I’d turned into one of the bitches I’d hated all through high school. I’d loved no man since, not even my husband. Which was why Robert was now my ex-husband.
I followed Kit’s career as a friend. And despite how badly he’d hurt me, I couldn’t help but be happy for his success. He’d done exactly what he'd planned. He was ruling the world with a guitar in his hands. Just like I’d always known he would.
As he looked at me, there was no guitar. There was the signature black t-shirt and worn jeans. The rakish hair, the five o'clock shadow. He was the boy I remembered. All grown up. He was all man now and my body responded like a plucked guitar string, coming to life with a vibrant hum I hadn’t felt in years.
Damn him. I couldn’t stop looking. Stop feeling…
“Crystal,” Vi murmured. “What are you looking at?”
When I didn't look away, she glanced up as well. Her hand gripped my arm like a talon. “Holy shit, is that—”
I nodded.
“He's a fucking rock star. God, I have every one of Nightbird's albums. Every one of the guys in the band are hot as hell. And he's staring at you.” She glanced at me. “Crystal, do you know him?”
Did I know Kit Kaswell? I nodded. Every inch of his skin. The taste of his kiss, the thick length of his…