Hard Rock Improv

by Ava Lore

  Hard Rock Improv

  The Lonely Kings #3

  Ava Lore

  Published by Brittle Divinity Press, 2014.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  First edition. March 27, 2014.

  Copyright © 2014 Ava Lore.

  Written by Ava Lore.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  For my fans, who waited.

  Chapter One

  The party was in full swing by the time I decided to say fuck everything and become a heroin addict.

  I know. I know. It probably said something about the state of my life at that point in time that to my drink-addled brain ‘become a heroin addict’ was a brilliant idea and the solution to all my problems. Granted, there would be new problems to deal with once I was hooked on smack, but right now? It was foolproof.

  Then one of The Steves threw up on my shoes and derailed all my plans.

  ...Okay, let me back up.

  I was not accustomed to music industry parties, and this one was a huge shindig. It was an after-party celebrating the end of the first North American tour of The Lonely Kings of Lifeless Things, combined with a going-away party for the band. Tomorrow they were off to Hawaii to shoot a video and conclude the tour with an enormous concert in Honolulu.

  Me? I’m just an entertainment lawyer, and I’d never worked with the band before. I managed to get an invite because my sister, Rebecca, was dating the band’s bassist. Luckily, The Steves seemed to want to show me a good time.

  The Steves was the name I’d collectively given to the tour’s road crew. I’d only just met them that evening—actually, I’d pretty much just met everyone that evening, except for my sister Rebecca, who I knew very well, and the band, whom I’d shaken hands with on at least two occasions—but they were quite enthusiastic about plying me with drinks and stories of the road. They were, to a one, big, burly men with bulging muscles and monosyllabic names so homogenized that by the end of my fourth champagne cocktail I could only recall that at least two of them were named Steve. Therefore they had become The Steves in my head.

  I quite liked The Steves. They’d cornered me at the bar where I was trying not to get too drunk off of one beer and an empty stomach, and for the last three hours I had been flanked at all times by at least three men who looked like they had been German panzers in a former life. There really were worse ways to spend one’s time, as I well knew.

  I bet Rebecca told them to keep me company, I remember thinking at the time. That was sweet of her, to think of little ol’ me. I downed another champagne cocktail. My stomach was protesting, but it was a dim, faraway protest, and at least it wasn’t empty anymore. At this point I was taking my calories where I could get them.

  I had just reached the point in my drunkenness where everything bad seemed like a good idea—you know, the point where jumping off the roof into your neighbor’s pool seems like a good idea—and one of The Steves was telling me about the amazing shit he had in his car.

  “You ever shoot up before?” he was asking me.

  No. No I had never shot up before. And I didn’t really want to. But at this point of my life, when everything else was so bad, well...why not try being a heroin addict?

  Then fate intervened.

  “Rose! Hey, Rose!” One of The Other Steves was trying to get my attention, and I realized there was a large, warm hand on my shoulder. I turned to face him a little too quickly, and through the haze of champagne I observed that the dark bar kept turning after my body had stopped. I stumbled a bit and my belly sloshed ad me, telling me I’d had too much to drink on an empty stomach and that I should slow down a bit.

  I told my stomach to suck it. This was the first time in months, maybe in over a year, that I’d been to a party. The alcohol was free and the company was boisterous, and I wasn’t about to let a little thing like basic biochemistry ruin my good time. Besides, chemistry had been my worst subject in school, so it just stood to reason that it didn’t apply to me.

  The hand on my shoulder pulled me into the Steve’s chest. This Steve was very handsome, in a beery, thickset, high school football sort of way. His hair was light blond and his eyes were pale and twinkling. Or maybe that was the flashing neon lights from the dance floor.

  “Hey!” he bellowed again as another unseen hand pressed yet another champagne glass into my grip. “You wanna know what I think this party needs?”

  Tossing back half the champagne, I’d nodded enthusiastically, and the room nodded right along with me. “Yeah!” I had hollered. “What does this party need?”

  The Steve gave me a dazzling smile. “Cage dancers!” he yelled at the top of his lungs.

  Then he leaned over and vomited all over my shoes.

  So yes. That was pretty much when the party was over and my life went back to sucking.

  The heavy club beat pounded at my brain as I stared down at my shoes in the dim light. Once upon a time, they had been nice shoes. No, they had been great shoes. Beautiful red patent leather platform pumps. Louboutins. I hadn’t been able to afford them, but I’d bought them anyway, because it was important to look professional. You had to look professional. Professional, and polished, and, preferably, extremely successful. It was the rules.

  My poor shoes had seen a lot of wear and tear over the years, but I’d kept them because I couldn’t afford to replace them. They’d been so expensive that I was going to wear them until they were ground down into dust. In the past year I’d been so hard on them that they were now coming apart, the leather separating from the sole, the insole coming unglued and bunching uncomfortably under my foot, and the heel getting distinctly rickety, the prelude to breaking. And now they were covered in vomit. An inglorious end for such a faithful pair of pumps.

  Tears pricked my eyes as I stared down at my feet. It looked like the Steve had eaten too much chili for dinner, and I was not willing to confirm this with a sniff test. Blinking back my stupid tears, I stuck my nose in my champagne glass and drained the rest of it as, next to me, the Steve heaved and fell to his hands and knees.

  I sighed.

  Well, whatever, I thought. They’re just shoes.

  That wasn’t really true, of course. They weren’t just shoes. But I was good at lying to myself.

  All around us the other Steves were howling with laughter as their fallen comrade coughed and sputtered on the floor. Assholes, I thought.

  Very carefully, so as not to break it, I put the champagne glass on the bar behind me. Then I slipped off my shoes and left them for dead.

  Stepping around the puddle of vomit, I crouched down next to the spitting, sputtering man. I put a hand on his back and began to rub it.

  He turned a bleary eye on me. He had a sweet, young face, still retaining a bit of its baby fat, and he wore a wedding ring on his hand.

  “I’m so sorry, Miss Rose,” he said. “I’m so sorry...”

  “Shh,” I said. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it. I’d never liked t
hose shoes anyway.”

  Lie, lie, lie. The thought, that I could ill-afford to throw away shoes, crossed my mind, but champagne is a wonderful buffer against things like that. I patted his back some more, making the most soothing noises I could over the pounding music.

  After a minute or two he finally stopped heaving and slumped against the bar, eyes closed. I checked to make sure he was still breathing—he was, thank Christ—and stood up. The floor of the bar was sticky underneath my stockinged feet and I firmly tried not to think about what I might be stepping in. Leaning over the puddle of vomit I grabbed my purse from my stool and looped it over my head and across my chest. With any luck I could make a swift exit and go...somewhere.

  However, my unfortunate Steve was having trouble getting to his feet, and his cohorts were practically falling over at the hilarity of watching him grab the bar, haul himself upward, and then lose his balance and slump back down again. In the dim light I saw that he had kneeled in his own puke. I felt my lips thin down into a flat line.

  Just a year ago I would have been disgusted. I would have almost vomited myself at the prospect of coming into contact with puke or with anyone too immature to control their alcohol intake.

  Funny how time changes thing.

  Now my heart twisted at the sight of Steve staggering and falling. He was just young and dumb. Everyone had a right to be young and dumb, right? Maybe he was going through something. Maybe he had some kind of trauma in his past. Maybe he was an alcoholic and couldn’t control it. There could be any reason at all that he had drunk too much and humiliated himself in front of everyone.

  All I knew was that he had fallen down, and no one was helping him back up.

  Crouching down next to him I touched his shoulder and, when I realized he was too drunk to feel my hand, I gave him a little shake. Sick puppy-dog eyes turned on me and I forced myself to smile. I’ve been told I look like my mother when I smile, and right now I couldn’t think of anyone else who would be better at taking care of him—or me—than my Mom.

  God, I missed her. Swallowing back more tears, I held out my arms to him.

  “Come here,” I yelled over the music.

  Like a baby he reached for me and I helped him loop his arm around my shoulders. The stink of vomit met my nose and I tried to hold my breath as I pushed off, hauling him to his feet along with me. Around us the crowd backed away, and I saw one of the cute bartender girls jogging around the bar with a towel at the ready. I felt briefly sorry for her. Then I realized I was about to go clean up a grown man covered in his own vomit and I wasn’t even getting paid for it, so I went back to feeling sorry for myself.

  My Steve leaned heavily on me and I staggered sideways, out of the small circle of people who had witnessed the event and into the crowd.

  The stink of sweat and perfume hit me in the face as I dragged my burden through the congregation. The heat generated by hundreds of gyrating bodies wrapped around my head, invading my mouth and lungs, and I began to gasp for air. My legs were already aching at the added weight leaning against me, and I found myself almost power walking in the hopes of escaping the crowd again.

  I absently noted the revelries around me as we pushed our way toward the restrooms. We passed a girl making out with two guys, a couple drunkenly doing the tango in a circle of appreciative onlookers, and a young man chugging a pitcher of beer to the cheers of the people around him. It was like college all over again.

  I felt old. I was old. God. What was I doing here?

  To my relief we finally arrived at the restrooms, but then I had to pause.

  Men’s? I thought. Or Women’s?

  ...Dangit.

  Normally I’m not the sort of girl who goes into places I’m not supposed to. Rules are there for a reason, and I knew most of those reasons because I was a lawyer. Well...had been a lawyer. But even though I wasn’t a lawyer any longer I still thought like one, and knowing the rules was my specialty.

  However, just like every lawyer, I also knew that rules were made to be broken, or at least cleverly circumvented.

  Next to me, the Steve made a little urp sound and leaned heavily against my shoulder.

  Yeah. Time to break some rules.

  I turned to the men’s room, took a deep breath, and kicked open the door.

  “Put your dicks away!” I hollered over the music. “Well-bred lady coming through!”

  Then I dragged Steve into the bathroom.

  The restroom itself was poorly lit and extensively graffitied, though I suspected that dim lights and graffiti were actually part of the meticulously designed décor so the more sheltered patrons of the bar could get a little thrill from “slumming it.” I hoped it was cleaner in here than it looked.

  To my great misfortune, the loss of my shoes meant I could feel every single tile under my feet. Just the thought of what might be on those tiles, seeping through my hose to my skin, gave me the heebie-jeebies, and I tried not to think about it. My eyes were a bit blurry from the lights and champagne, so, aside from the carefully cultivated seedy ambience, I noticed very little of my surroundings while I wrestled my Steve through the door. As we passed through the doorframe, I felt his feet trip over themselves and his heavy weight fell against me.

  Caught off guard, I staggered.

  My body slammed into the opposite wall and my grip on the Steve failed. He slumped from my arms and to the floor as I gasped with pain.

  “Ow!”

  Steve laid face down on the tiles and threw up again.

  Okay, I thought. I am not drunk enough to deal with this.

  “Try not to puke before I get you to a toilet!” I snapped at him. My shoulder ached something fierce, and I knew I was going to have bruises up and down my arm tomorrow.

  To my dismay, he didn’t seem to have heard me. My newly cultivated empathy was waning with a quickness

  Sighing with exasperation, I took a wobbly, drunken step over the new puddle of vomit and rounded his prone form to the other side. I had to get him mobile again, but how? It had been okay while he was on his feet; now he was a body at rest. A body at rest in a pool of puke, and likelier to stay that way with each passing minute. Party physics.

  Putting my hands on my hips I looked down at him and pursed my lips, struggling to come up with a viable solution. I was far too weak to move him on my own, and he obviously did not have control over himself.

  Get help? my brain suggested.

  ...That would be the smart thing. But I hated asking for help. I’d already taken responsibility for this guy; it felt wrong to make him into somebody else’s problem.

  Steve turned his head and I saw his eyes were closed. Sure enough, a few seconds later I heard him snore. He was probably getting herpes all over his face, and I suspected this problem had gone beyond my capacity to deal with it.

  Just like everything else in your stupid life, I thought to myself. Way to go, Wonder Woman. You sure saved the fucking day...

  “Rose?”

  I blinked and realized my eyes had been filling with tears. I looked down at Steve, but he was still unconscious.

  I frowned. Who had said my name?

  “Rose Alton?”

  I gasped and whirled around.

  Next to the sinks stood Emmanuel Reyes, the drummer for The Lonely Kings of Lifeless Things.

  My mind went blank, a defensive maneuver designed to hold embarrassment at bay. It didn’t work.

  Manny Reyes. How to describe Manny Reyes? My sister had told me all about him. Sweet. Artistic. Laid-back. Pothead.

  And, like my Mom used to say, hotter than Satan’s nut sack.

  Yeah. Rebecca didn’t say that, by the way. I noticed that all on my own.

  As with every handsome man ever, my tongue tangled up and over itself as my ruthlessly suppressed sex drive reared its head and forced me to take in every detail.

  Tall. Dark. Sinfully handsome. His glossy black-brown hair was short now—the last time I’d seen him he’d been wearing it in dreadlock
s—and swept back from his face. His sharp jaw line sported a short beard, just past the stubble stage, and heavy eyebrows shadowed the most beautiful golden eyes.

  He was taller than I’d remembered. He wore a white ringer tee that was almost too small for him—all the better to show off his insanely good body, hard and lean—and his jeans were straight, tight, and stylish. He was leaning against the sinks, one leather-booted foot crossed over the other and his arms crossed over his chest. His biceps bulged, and I realized, after a second of rudely staring, that the fabric of his t-shirt was thin enough that every single tattoo emblazoned across his skin was faintly visible, even in the crappy lighting.

  “Uh,” I said intelligently. Stop that, libido! I scolded it. Men are a distraction!

  A frown creased his beautiful features and he leaned forward, studying me. I suddenly felt very drab and disgusting, dressed in two-day-old clothes, my hair in a bun because it hadn’t been washed since Monday night. And now I was missing my shoes.

  It was happening, I realized. I was finally falling into the pit...

  Then Manny cleared his throat, dragging my attention back to him. “Er...you are Rebecca’s sister, aren’t you?” he asked.

  I wanted to come back with something witty, something sharp and intelligent that would impress him. I had no problems doing that with old men in boardrooms or clients who had overstepped their bounds one too many times. Why should it be different now?

  Pull it together! I snapped at myself.

  “Oh!” I said. “Um. Yes. And you’re Manny.”

  Look at me, I’m the goddamn female Casanova. I should have known telling myself to pull it together wouldn’t have worked. I’d been telling myself that for the past year and it hadn’t worked yet.

  Manny, however, broke into a smile. “Oh good,” he said. “I haven’t been drinking, so it would have been weird if you hadn’t been you.” Then he frowned again and looked around himself. “Wait. Am I in the women’s bathroom?”

  “No,” I told him. “I was just trying to get this guy somewhere he can throw up in peace...” I pointed at the Steve, still sprawled on the floor, snoring.