by Davis, Rhona
Hard Rock Love
Rhona Davis
Contents
Description
Prologue
1. Jay
2. Krissy
3. Krissy
4. Jay
5. Krissy
6. Krissy
7. Jay
8. Krissy
9. Krissy
10. Jay
11. Krissy
12. Jay
13. Jay
14. Krissy
15. Krissy
16. Jay
Epilogue
About the Author
Before you go . . .
Copyright © 2017 by Rhona Davis
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.
www.rhonadavis.com
Sign up for my newsletter HERE!
Description
If you’d have told me back in high school that I’d be out on the road with my favorite rock band in the universe, Sweet Agony, I would have called you crazy . . .
When my best friend invites me along to the West Coast leg of their tour, I jump at the chance. Her boyfriend is chief sound engineer for the band, and as a consequence I’m accepted into the fold.
Sweet Agony may be America’s top band but it’s their lead singer that really seals the deal for me . . . Jay Tyler: over six foot of gorgeous, tattooed, muscular attitude.
Getting more than I bargained for late one night, feelings between me and Jay grow.
I should be the happiest girl in the world. So why do I feel a sense of apprehension? A world famous rock star is bound to have a reputation . . . a history. I have to put all that to the back of my mind. My attraction is just too strong to ignore. Although Jay oozes masculine confidence and sex appeal, I’m sure there’s something softer beneath that hard veneer.
Could I be the first girl and only girl to tame him?
I’m not sure . . .
But I’m going to have fun trying!
Hard Rock Love is a standalone romance novella with no cheating and a happy ending guaranteed. Recommended for readers 18+ due to mature language and situations.
Prologue
Krissy
Painting my neck with devilish kisses, I give myself to him completely. Each kiss is sweeter than the previous, each one more feverish with intent.
I want him to claim every part of me.
Brand me.
Absolutely anything the boy wants.
Pressed against the wall of the tiny dressing room, there’s no escape. His mint-fresh breath blows hot over my trembling skin. I squeeze my eyes shut as he shoves a hand down my jeans and under my cotton panties. He’s certainly not wasting time.
Tracing a finger up and down the slick length of my fold, he teases me with the promise of release.
Although as cruel as it is sweet, the feeling of being under his total control consumes me.
He’s about to use me in any way he wants, and I’m about to let him; my own kisses on his plush lips forging an unspoken contract to his every whim.
I should feel objectified and yet I will him on. Like a junkie desperate for their fix, I am oblivious to the consequences. To him I’m just another screaming fan—another girl with crazy dreams of her prince charming and happily ever after; dreams of being the one who could finally make Jay Tyler settle down and shed his rock star persona forever.
As his fingers press firmly to my beating clit, making hard and confident circles, he gnaws down on my breasts, kissing and sucking on my erect nipples. My hands do more than a little investigation of their own; each palm smoothing over the dense surface of his naked, tattooed torso. Such defined muscle, so raw and powerful: steel-lined, athletic, and hot to the touch.
His bearded jaw sets as he rips away his studded belt and yanks down his dark skinny Levis. My gaze snaps below and I gasp in awe. His arousal is clear, bulging hard underneath his snug white Calvin Kline briefs.
I could ask him to take it slow but I don’t want him to shy away from me. Jay doesn’t do slow. Jay does what he wants, when he wants it. And I’m a willing player in his game of lust.
The price for falling too hard . . . ? Eternal heartache.
Maybe.
Fuck it.
Like a caged animal set free, he tears down my panties and jerks his fingers in and out of me. I’m so wet that his entry was easy.
My soft moans get louder, as my hips buck and dance along to his expert rhythm. The sound of my pleasure bounces off the concrete walls. I don’t even try to hide my want and need for him.
“Jay, fuck me—”
“Quiet.” He rubs my clit firmer with his thumb, as he stabs his thick digits deep inside my wetness. There’s nothing pretty about this, nothing sweet or romantic, but I’m all in. The first night with him was like heaven, but this is something else. I should stop this, retreat and figure out if I mean more to him, but I can’t.
He’s all I’ve ever wanted.
I used to have pictures of him, torn away from the pages of music mags, pinned up in my high school locker. His first album, Sonic Hearts, came out when I was just fifteen. I even made my first serious boyfriend copy his dress style, although he could never dream of coming close to the real thing.
Jay pushes harder to my body, his brute strength crushing me against the wall and stealing my breath away.
I can feel a climax swiftly coming on, just like the first night with him—fast and violent in its ecstasy.
I scream, begging for him to make love to me. “Jay—”
All of a sudden, without the slightest hint that something was wrong, he pulls away from me and staggers backward toward the ripped leather coach in the center of the dressing room.
So close, so very near the edge of bliss . . .
Frustrated, I freeze. Confusion floods me. Did I do something wrong?
It’s like he wants to punish me somehow. Nothing even close to the tender introspection of the songs he writes and performs—or that first, sweet night in his hotel room.
As I begin to whisper his name he cuts me off, yanking up his jeans like nothing happened. “I want you out.”
“I don’t understand. I thought you liked me?”
He stares at me, devoid of all emotion now. “Did you?”
Panic tears at my gut. It’s like I’m talking to a stranger. “Well . . . I don’t know. Yes, maybe. I mean, isn’t that was this is?”
A cruel smirk plays across his lips. It makes him look ugly for the first time ever. He remains silent, just . . . staring. The fire in his exceptionally beautiful green eyes has been extinguished, replaced by a cold and distant gaze that cuts right through me. He seems totally unmoved by my distress.
“Jay, talk to me, did I do something wrong?”
“This is just sex . . . was, just sex.”
“Please—”
He darts for me and grabs my elbow, dragging me across the room toward the door. The power in his grip really hurts.
“Jay,” my voice raises, tears glazing my eyes.
“You’ve had your turn,” he says. “You can cross it off your bucket list.”
I try to fight him off and reason with him. “What do you mean? Why are you doing this?”
“You’ve fucked a rock star. Congratulations.”
He swings the door open and shoves me out of the dressing room with such force that I almost tumble over. Before he closes the door on me, I spin on my heel. “Just tell me what I’ve done!”
“Nothing.” His lips twist into the cruelest of grins. “That’s the point. You do nothing
to me. You mean nothing to me. You’re just another lucky groupie. Forget me, Krissy. I’m not who or what you want me to be.”
And just like that, as easy and as awful as those words spew from his lips, the door slams in my face.
As if the tendons of my legs have been slashed with a knife, I drop to the floor in a heap. Tears flow like bitter champagne. Not even my pained sobs, which I’m sure he can hear through the echo of the corridor, are enough for him to open up again and at least try to explain his aggressive change of heart.
They say meeting your heroes only disappoints.
But what if you fall in love with them . . . ?
What then?
1
Jay
Three weeks earlier . . .
San Diego, California
The show finishes just after eleven. Three hours of full-on rock and roll and my body is drenched in sweat.
Once upon a time I lived for this shit, but these days it’s just the same old rope—punching in a clock card six nights a week, eight months of the year, with breaks for recording the next album and maybe the briefest of vacations: a never ending cycle of writing, recording, and spewing your soul out for a baying mob who all want a piece of your flesh.
I’m only twenty-eight but I’m starting to feel closer to seventy.
The art’s been kicked out of it. My band, Sweet Agony, are little more than a cash printing machine these days, rolling out the green for greedy old suits in tall glass buildings.
It never started this way. I used to love writing music with my high school buddies. Flunking college, we created a little garage band in our home city of Oakland. We had belief, passion, and an army of naysayers ready to break our balls at the first sign of failure. It was hard, but those were great times: poor as fuck, living off rice, beans, and tap water . . . driving to the next gig in the back of some rusty old Winnebago that would inevitably break down miles from the nearest gas stop.
Now everything’s at our disposal: drugs as plentiful as sugar, a choice of hysterical groupies to fuck and forget, and so much money you could burn a mountain of it and still have enough left over for a huge bonfire.
It’s just too easy. And that’s the point—there’s nothing left to fight for, to aspire to.
I used to curse at those multi-platinum selling Grammy award winning artists who sat on a fortune. They’d always complain in interviews about how their lives lacked meaning in the light of success, and that wealth and fame were somehow a painful burden to shoulder. At eighteen, I would’ve given my left nut to have what they had. But now I have it, and much more, I think I finally understand what they meant all those years ago.
Our current and forth album, Wasted Light, is a pile of dog shit. And the fans know it, too. But, being ever loyal, they’d lap up anything we threw out there. The record company wanted more ‘hits’. Better for sales, they told us. No one sells albums anymore, and, it’s all about the top 40 downloads. The label pushed us toward a pop direction for our latest release. I wanted Nirvana. They wanted Justin-fuckin’-Bieber.
After a five minute break, I run back out to the stage and rip into an encore for our hungry legion of devoted fans—all jammed-packed into the amphitheater, like rabid dogs out for blood.
We pick our first single and biggest hit, Without Hope, as a fitting curtain closer. I’m pretty proud of the first album that song dropped from, but I get a little wary of singing the same songs night after night. It’s the tour manger’s request we play those ‘hits’.
When we finally leave the stage, I nod to my chief sound engineer, Greg, and push past his girlfriend who waits at the back. She’s stood next to some nameless brunette girl; pretty, but with that dopey wide-eyed look all the girls in the crowd give me. I wipe my naked torso clean of sweat with a towel, and chuck it at the brunette. She catches it with a look of relish on her face.
These groupies . . . man . . . so fucking desperate.
I scoff and barge past her, heading to my private dressing room for a much needed drink.
* * *
Taking a gulp of a lukewarm beer, I wince in revulsion. Even the beer is boring and tepid these days, but it helps me come down from a punishing set so I drink it all the same. It’s either this or something stronger, and being clean for six months I could do without the drama. Walking down that dark path again is not an option.
Last time I nearly lost everything.
2
Krissy
I’m going to guard this towel with my life and never, ever put it through a wash.
“What the heck are you doing?” Monica asks.
“I can smell him.” I take a longer sniff, closing my eyes. “It’s like his standing right here with me.”
“That’s his sweat, babe.”
“I like the smell of his sweat.”
Her face pinches. “Gross.”
Greg, Monica’s boyfriend and sound engineer for my absolute fav band in the universe, walks over to us. “Enjoyed the show, girls?” His eyes are trained on me as he talks, the question more for my benefit that Mon’s.
I gush. “It was amazeballs. Thank you.” I glance at Monica. “Thank you both so much for inviting me.”
Monica rolls her eyes and pulls me in for a hug. “Aww, you big softie. I couldn’t follow Greg on the road without inviting the one person who would die to tag along.”
My face heats from the warmth of the stage lights, and from my appreciation and gratitude. Although Monica’s a little flippant about it, this is a big deal for me.
I’ve known Monica since first grade. She’s my best friend. We both come from Clinton, the same small town in New Jersey, and went to high school together. She moved to the West Coast as soon as we graduated from business school, a little over a year ago, and shares a small condo in Bakersfield with Greg. When he’s not out on the road, they live an idyllic life together—they have their own place with a porch, a rose bush . . . the works. It’s nice. She met him at one of Sweet Agony’s East Coast gigs. He’s older than her by five years and has been a permeant fixture for the band since their early days.
Greg checks the time on his sports watch. “Why don’t you both head back to the dressing rooms and help yourselves to some drinks. I’ll finish up here and join you after.”
Monica pouts, rubbing at her left temple. “I need food first. I’m still hungover from last night.”
I smile inwardly as I remember the boozy adventures we had last night in some of the finest dive bars San Diego had to offer. The band was all there, to celebrate the start of the new tour—all that is apart from their lead singer, Jay Tyler. Maybe he’s more of a slow starter and had to prep himself for his first gig by hiding away? His absence only made him more mysterious.
Jay is twenty-eight, a Virgo, six foot plus, with dark wavy hair, a tightly muscled body—more like a swimmer than a meat head—and a gorgeous Californian Sunkist tan that is natural. His beautiful body is adorned with funky tattoos and his dress style is arty, yet smart and cool. He’s as fit as they come but he’s made extra special by virtue of how damn right talented he is. He plays the guitar like Hendrix and sings like Jim Morrison. The man’s got it all.
Inside the dressing room, the forth on the end of a narrow corridor away from the band’s, Monica pops open the caps on two ice-cold bottles of Bud and hands me one. A collection of assorted beers rests inside a large silver bucket of ice, fanning out like an alcohol version of a flower bouquet. The backstage area is kind of grim—old chewing gum and graffiti on the walls, sticky floors—but the whole crew’s needs for beer and liquor are more than met.
I press the cool bottle to my forehead to stop from overheating. The condensation on the surface trickles down my brow. As soon as I take my first swig, I gag.
Monica snorts. “God, even in high school you were never much of a drinker.”
I shrug. “I don’t like beer, that’s all.”
“Well, as soon as Greg’s ready we can head out for cocktails . . . get some
thing sweeter.”
I nod my approval as I purse my lips to the neck of the bottle and take another swig. It tastes like shit but I need to drink so I can gain the courage to hang around the Sweet Agony guys, especially their hunky front man.
God, I really hope Jay comes out tonight.
As Monica starts toward a small bathroom at the back of the dressing room divide, I bring Jay’s towel up to my face. I wait a moment, to make sure Monica doesn’t catch me again, before I hold it to my nose and take another sniff. His man sweat, mixed with vague traces of expensive cologne, makes my core heat.
I feel close to him . . .
I also feel pathetic. Like some needy, crazed fan. I’m sure I’m just one of a million girls who feel this way about Jay Tyler. I know all my friends back home would be insanely jealous if they knew I was holding Kay’s towel to my face, and just thinking that makes me smile from ear to ear.
I’m on tour with Sweet Agony . . . with Jay . . . with Jay’s smell pressed snug against my nose.
This is going to be one summer break I will never forget. And if he talks to me at some point during this three week trek, I can die a happy camper.
3
Krissy
“I promise, mom, I’m okay.” I roll my eyes and take a sip of my long island ice tea. “Yes, I’m eating and drinking just fine. Stop worrying.”
The rally call of, Drink! Drink! Drink! Drink! , blares out behind me like a war cry.
Pressing the receiver tighter to my ear, I cup my hand over the phone’s mouthpiece and turn my shoulder away from the erupting party. “No, it’s nothing. I’m in a busy diner.” Lie—I’m in a cocktail bar. “Mom, you’re breaking up. No, don’t call my cellphone. I left the charger on the tour bus. Mom . . . the line’s really fuzzy, I love you. Yes, I’ll call soon. Bye.” Slamming the phone down before mom hears the shouting and screams of the bar, I take my change from the slot and brush a lose tendril of hair away from my eyes.