Dirty Rock: A Rock Star Romance

by James, Vicki

  Dirty Rock

  A Rock Star Romance

  Vicki James

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Epilogue

  PLAYLIST

  About Vicki James

  Also by Vicki James

  About Victoria L. James

  Dirty Rock ©2020 VICKI JAMES

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the author, except that of small quotations used in critical reviews and promotions via blogs.

  Dirty Rock is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products, for the most part, of the author’s imagination, except for those venues which do exist in the world. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or deceased, events or any other incident is entirely coincidental

  COVER DESIGN & FORMATTING:

  L.J. Stock of LJ Designs

  EDITED BY:

  Claire Allmendinger of BNWEditing

  PROMOTIONS:

  Wendy Shatwell and Claire Allmendinger

  Bare Naked Words

  DEDICATED TO

  Lou J Stock

  For being the very first person I go to with any idea I have, and for being the one who stands by my side the whole way through, always filled with encouragement, and never letting me quit.

  Not even when I growl at her.

  Everybody needs a friend like Lou.

  Acknowledgments

  My army of supporters is strong. When I released Cherry Beats under the slightly different name of Vicki James, I had no idea what to expect. The months that followed that release were beyond anything I could have imagined and, as always, the following people helped me dig deep to get on with writing Rhett’s story.

  I start with Lou J Stock. Not only have I dedicated this book to you, Lou, because of your love of Rhett… but I’ve done it because of your love of me, too. Thank you for being such an epic friend.

  To Claire Allmendinger, who never fails to be there for me, even when things in her world aren’t so great. A great editor, and one of the most selfless beings on the planet.

  To Wendy Shatwell, Francesca Marlow, Charlie M. Matthews, Amy Trevathan, Sue Hollingmode, Mary Green, Kristina Hanicar, Natasha Preston, Zoë Lowdon, Katy Watson, Sara Robertshaw, Samantha Towle, Elle Brooks, Jodi Marie Maliszewski, and so many, many, many others who offer book encouragement, ongoing support, and general merriment in my life… I cannot thank you enough for your friendships and laughter. You keep me sane when the rest of the world drives me scatty.

  To Bare Naked Words

  You are the best damn promotions guys on the planet. Thank you for everything.

  To Mum and Dad, who I know always have my back, no matter what. I love the way you tell everybody about what I’ve achieved with huge smiles on your faces. Your belief in me means the world.

  To my kiddos, Paige, Connor, Charlie, Harry… and grand-kiddo Alfie.

  I hope you always chase your dreams, no matter the amount of effort required, and I hope you forgive me for always been so damn busy all the time. I do it for you guys, I promise.

  To the husband.

  Without you, none of this would have happened. Thank you for all the nights you listen to me moan, and for following me wherever I go, no matter how bumpy the path.

  The J Team—my Facebook group—and every member in it.

  You brighten up the darkest of days. Never leave me. I adore every single one of you and the laughs you continue to provide on a daily basis.

  To all the bloggers out there who offer me endless support, I couldn’t do any of this without you. Thank you.

  And then there’s you, the reader.

  The one who will hopefully drift through the pages of this novel with a smile on your face.

  Thank you for choosing me. Your support will never stop being appreciated.

  Enjoy Rhett.

  He’s one hell of a frontman.

  With love,

  Vic x

  Prologue

  RHETT RYAN

  Aged 15

  “Rhett, wait up!”

  I turned to see my best mate, Ollie, running towards me. His short blonde hair was spiked up, with each strand individually gelled in place, and his rucksack bounced on his back as he came to a stop in front of me, gasping for breath.

  Green Day was blasting in my ears, with Billie Joe Armstrong singing to me about when he comes around. I tugged an earphone out and eyed Ollie as I gripped the strap of my own bag and readjusted it on my shoulder.

  “Hey,” Ollie panted.

  “S’up?”

  “You left before I got to tell you what happened at lunch today.”

  “Sorry.” Reaching up, I scratched an eyebrow before I pushed my hands through my chin-length, jet-black emo haircut.

  Nineties music was my jam, and I wasn’t ashamed to show it.

  I wanted to be Billie Joe Armstrong. I wanted his voice, his life, his money, his ability to escape anything that was ordinary—like everything around here happened to be. I wanted what Green Day had, but with a big, black bow on top. My home village of Cookham in Berkshire sucked, and I couldn’t wait for the day when I took my guitar off to another part of the world that wasn’t England, and I found where I belonged.

  “I have to get home. Mum wants to talk to me,” I told Ollie, noticing the way my voice broke on certain words—damn puberty making me sound like a choir boy one minute, only to turn me into a drugged-up sex pest the next.

  “You in trouble?”

  My life was in trouble, sure, and I was pretty sure Ma wanted to see me so she could deliver some bad news. But was I in trouble? I hoped not.

  “I don’t think so. What did you have to tell me?”

  Ollie’s eyes brightened. “Someone has a crush on you.”

  “Who?”

  “Charlotte King.”

  “The hell are you talking about?” I frowned.

  Charlotte King was one of the most popular girls in our school. Her auburn hair was always perfectly straight without a strand out of place, and even though it was against school policy, Charlotte wore pink lipstick every day to make sure every boy in school noticed her pouty lips. The first time I saw her, almost a decade ago, I’d thought I’d
loved her on sight. But then she’d opened her mouth, and I’d quickly realised that, behind the obvious beauty her face carried, there was a girl with an ugly heart and a vicious mouth.

  Since refusing to give her any of the attention she so obviously craved, I’d had a target on my back, and Charlotte was determined to hit it. Since it was frowned upon to retaliate against women, I’d kept my mouth shut during years of her taunting.

  Then, to make matters even worse, she’d partnered up with her on-again, off-again boyfriend, Liam Montgomery.

  Liam Montgomery, along with his idiotic, rugby-playing, brutish friends, happened to be my worst enemy now. He’d hated everything about me since the first day we met. He’d hated the way I dressed, the way I styled my hair, the way I spoke, the music I listened to, and more than anything… Liam hated the way I sang and played the guitar because he was fucking useless at both those things.

  “Dude, she told Andrew Crawley that she’d watched you play during fifth-period music lesson last week. She went home and had a dream about you, and she’s not been able to stop thinking about you since. She thinks that all this hate she’s been harbouring has actually been some kind of love.”

  “Did you fall and hit your head?”

  “It makes sense. Why else would she be so obsessed with you?”

  I stared at my stupid best friend with narrowed eyes before I picked up my earbud and pushed it back into place. Not giving him a chance to go on, I turned and walked away. Green Day had been replaced with The Cranberries, Zombie, reminding me of what I felt like most days in this shitty little village surrounded by insignificant wannabes like Charlotte and Liam. I didn’t belong here with this high school crap. I deserved a life with meaning, where lyrics were my oxygen, and the strum of a guitar was the only thing to make my heart beat faster.

  “Rhett. Rhett! Come on, bro. Dude. Listen!”

  Ollie followed, and while I walked like a normal person, he side-skipped along with me, gesticulating with his hands as he told his story. And it was a story, filled with nothing but fiction. I tuned him out, instead drifting off to wonder how some of my musical heroes had spent their teen years. Had they, too, been uninterested in what others found worthy of their time. Had Kurt Cobain struggled to fake his smiles among friends? Had Chris Cornell always known he was somehow different to those around him? Had my other idol, Corey Taylor, learnt how to scream his frustrations in the quiet of his own mind?

  Those were my only thoughts as Ollie and I turned the corner, nearing my house, only to come face-to-face with a wall of guys I knew all too well.

  If trouble could be bottled as a fragrance, these guys drowned themselves in that kind of aftershave. It tinged the air, suffocating anyone close by.

  Ollie came to a stop as I did, and while I let out a tired sigh, Ollie’s mouth started moving again.

  “Not today, Liam,” he began. “We’re not doing anything wrong. We’re just walking home. Let us past.”

  “You sound like a girl,” Liam mocked. “We’re not doing anything wrong.” He laughed roughly, and his cronies joined in behind him, turning my stomach sick. Fucking clowns.

  Liam was already six-foot-tall, and his arms were bigger than tree trunks. Especially when he folded them over his chest the way he currently was doing. His eyebrows were too big and bushy, and his dark crew cut hair made him look like he’d already spent a few years serving time on the frontline for his country.

  I didn’t bother pulling my earphones out as I looked at him.

  I didn’t care what he or any of them had to say.

  I focused on the song playing in my ears. On the way the guitar drew you in before the drums sank you under. On the way the beat made the hairs on the back of your neck stand to attention before Dolores O’Riordan held you captive. I imagined her singing it to a packed arena full of fans, and how it would feel to hit every note as thousands of strangers looked up with admiration.

  What’s in my head, Dolores? The music. The power of it all. You, Cobain, Cornell, Taylor, Armstrong. The list is endless.

  Music took me away from the troubles at my feet, and while Ollie tried to postpone what was coming, and Liam no doubt planned his attack like he was organising a strategy for a game of rugby, I stayed still with my hands in my pockets, just staring at him.

  Dolores sang, and I let my toes tap along in my Vans. When she hit those high notes, my brow lifted, and I began to nod along.

  Liam raised an accusatory brow, trying to draw me in. “I heard a rumour today, little Ryan. Is it true? Are you trying to get my girl? Because you know I’ll skin you alive before I let that happen, don’t you?”

  I huffed out a puff of laughter, letting that be my only response. The thought of fighting over a woman made me want to stretch my arms above my head and yawn. I had no time for any of it. Love, attachments, and all that other shit I saw guys my age spending time on seemed pointless. They could be doing what I was and learning their craft instead. Being someone. Filling the void.

  Discovering art was the trip, man. Even at fifteen, I knew that much. From what I’d seen of life, women were hard work, and if I was going to work hard, it wasn’t going to be for a girl. It was going to be for me. For my future. For the invincibility I could almost reach out and touch—it felt so inevitable.

  It took ten seconds of my silence for Liam to rip my earphones out as his anger took over. I glanced down at them dangling from my pocket, before I slowly looked up at him under thick brows.

  If I could have been bothered, I’d have poured everything I had into putting his arse on the ground.

  But a boy like him didn’t deserve that kind of energy.

  Liam took a step closer. “You’re going to fight me, Rhett. Whether you want to or not.”

  “He hasn’t done anything, Liam,” Ollie said quietly. “Just let him go home.”

  Liam’s eyes held mine, and the more I stayed silent, the more his nostrils flared, and his mouth twitched. If he was waiting for me to explode, he had another thing coming. Instead, I reached down for my earphones, and I slowly pushed them back into my ears, not taking my eyes from his.

  Dolores had gone, and now Richard Ashcroft sang about that Bitter Sweet Symphony.

  I hit the volume button up on that track, drowning Liam out—Ollie, too.

  It didn’t take long for Liam to push me. He did it once, and then again. I was walking backwards with a smirk on my face that was hurting my enemy way more than my knuckles ever could.

  My indifference killed him. It poked the bear and made him angry.

  There was a twisted sense of power in that.

  Ollie shouted at me to fight.

  Richard Ashcroft and I sang about how we couldn’t change our mould, no, no, no, no, no, and right before Liam’s fist swung out, I took a mental snapshot of him and the angry zombies standing behind who didn’t even know why they were supposed to be mad at me. I committed them to memory for life, because one day, I’d be the guy standing on the stage like Armstrong, Dolores, and Ashcroft. I’d be the voice in some kid’s ear right before he was about to get beat up for no good reason other than that he seemed different to the rest.

  I’d be the success, with everyone screaming at him, begging for his attention.

  I’d do something—be someone with purpose—and the likes of Charlotte, Liam, and all those other idiots would be forgotten.

  Their words wouldn’t mean shit to me.

  The bruises would always fade.

  I’d be who I was always meant to be.

  I’d look like Billie Joe Armstrong. I’d be cool like Richard Ashcroft. I’d hypnotise people like Dolores O’Riordan.

  And I’d remain indifferent for always because that’s where peace lay.

  When I made it, nobody would ever dare to touch me again without seeking my permission first, and they’d have to get through an army of protectors to affect my heart.

  One day, I’d find my purpose, and I wouldn’t look back on this life again.

>   Not even for a minute.

  Chapter One

  RHETT

  Eleven Years Later

  Sweat trickled down my back as I stormed off the stage of Hard Rock Stadium in Miami after one of the best performances of my life. I was coiled, ready to spring free and orgasm on life—to make the earth shake and the people in it bow down at my feet.

  This was why I loved this gig. This feeling right here.

  The unmistakable energy floated through my bloodstream, gifting me with a feeling of invincibility I couldn’t find in anything else but this—the music, and the fact that I was damn good at it, too.

  The other members of the band were walking ahead of me, already numb to the euphoria being a rock star offered. Not like me. I soaked up every single second, even after three years. The screams, the fuck me eyes from the women in the front rows, the swaying arses, and the look of jealousy from the men who wished they were up there on the stage, doing what I did.