ROCKSTAR

by Lauren Rowe

  Lyrics.

  They’re suddenly flooding me.

  My heart leaping, I pull out my phone and start furiously writing them down:

  She’s no wallflower

  No shrinking violet

  She’s not a passenger

  The engine, the pilot

  Do as she says, son

  And no one gets hurt

  Unless you’re on the kill list:

  Dead as dirt

  I add some notes about a possible chord progression and an idea for a bridge, feeling electrified. But when I look up from my screen, I’m jolted to find a code-red situation in progress. Some GQ motherfucker in a designer suit is hitting on my hitwoman dancing queen!

  Whoa. This dude’s got some serious big-dick energy. And so does his friend, who’s currently hitting on the blonde. Damn. That’s the bad news. The good news, however, is that, based on my girl’s body language, I’d bet anything the guy’s a “telemarketer.” That’s what my brother, Keane, calls a dude who’s making a “cold call”: hitting on a girl he doesn’t know.

  Oh, shit. Mr. GQ is gesturing toward the dance floor now. Well, he’s got me beat there. That’s something I’d never do. I don’t dance, disco momma. Not unless I’m onstage with my guitar or shitfaced at a family wedding. I mean, come on, what sober person without a guitar in his hands would stand in a crowd, shaking his ass, when he could be sitting in a quiet corner, people-watching or talking to a small group of friends?

  Thankfully, my hitwoman dancing queen shakes her head in response to Mr. GQ’s invitation to dance. They talk for another couple minutes until, finally, the guy saunters away, his head held high, like getting stiff-armed by the most striking girl at the party was his plan all along.

  Lyrics.

  They’re flooding me again. I pull out my phone, my heart racing, and jot them down:

  She might kiss you

  And she might kill you

  And then throw on her blue suede shoes

  I don’t dance, disco momma pretty baby

  But I’d sure as hell dance with you

  My blood is coursing with adrenaline. Excitement. But, shit, when I look up from my phone, my muse is being hit on by yet another telemarketer. Jesus! This one with as much swagger as the first guy.

  This second guy is wearing the “L.A. uniform,” not a designer suit like the last guy: dark jeans and a $200 T-shirt. Like Mr. GQ who came before him, however, Mr. L.A. motions to the dance floor after chatting up my muse. But rather than turn down her suitor immediately, like she did with the first guy, this time, my muse bites her lip suggestively, turns her head... and looks straight at me for a long count of three... before returning to Mr. L.A., smiling sweetly, and shaking her head.

  And just that fast, I’m a goner. Putty in her hands. That look was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. She’s no wallflower or shrinking violet, indeed.

  When Mr. L.A. saunters away, my girl finds me across the room again. Our eyes lock. Only this time, she doesn’t look away after three seconds. No, she scowls after three seconds, as if to say, Why the hell are you taking so long to come over here?

  I laugh, simply because she’s so cute. Sexy. Magnetic. Quirky. And my laughter transforms her comical scowl into a beautiful, beaming smile that’s so radiant, so lovely, it leaves a little mark in the shape of a lipstick kiss on my very soul.

  My heart exploding in my chest, I mouth the word, Hello.

  Her lips part, like she’s going to reply in kind, but before she does, her blonde friend grabs her arm and pulls her attention away from me.

  Lyrics. Again. Oh my fucking God. I pull out my phone, yet again, and furiously write them down:

  You kissed my soul

  Disco momma pretty baby

  Kissed me, and left me to bleed

  You’ve got me craving, wanting

  Needing a taste

  Am I just another fatality?

  When I peek up from my phone this time, my muse is still chatting with her blonde friend, so I call to Fish on the other end of the couch and point her out.

  “Yeah, she’s definitely a stand-out,” Fish agrees. “She’s Uma Thurman from Pulp Fiction at an Elvis convention.”

  “Ha! Now I know exactly how to describe the girl of my dreams. Seriously, though, am I wearing the world’s most powerful weed-and-whiskey goggles, or is this girl intriguing as hell?”

  As Fish knows, “intriguing” is some next-level shit for me—my highest compliment when talking about a beautiful woman. A way bigger deal than me calling a woman “hot.”

  “She’s definitely intriguing,” Fish replies.

  “She’s already inspiring lyrics, man.”

  Fish looks at me, shocked. “Lyrics at first sight? When was the last time a girl did that to you?”

  “Never. Since we moved to L.A., no girl has inspired lyrics, at all. And back in Seattle, nobody ever inspired lyrics quite like this. So fast and furious. They’re crashing into me like a tsunami.”

  “This sounds serious, son.”

  “Meh. I’ve got no time for serious. In three days, I’ll be sitting on a plane headed for London. The only thing I’ve got time for tonight is a drive-by dabble, followed by a heartbreaking ‘we’ll always have L.A.!’ goodbye.”

  “Just as long as you vet her properly.” Fish pulls a snarky face, letting me know he still thinks my “vetting” comment from earlier was just plain stupid.

  Rolling my eyes at Fish’s dry facial expression, I return my attention to my muse, just in time to see Reed Rivers, accompanied by a buddy, both of them dressed in designer suits, approaching my girl’s blonde friend.

  I sit forward on the couch, staring as Reed gives the blonde a polite hug. When he disengages from her, I hold my breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. But to my relief, Reed doesn’t hug my girl. He only smiles briefly at her.

  I’m surmising introductions are being made, although in what combination I’m not sure. If I had to guess, Reed is introducing the blonde to his buddy. The blonde is introducing Reed to her friend. After brief conversation between the foursome, Reed’s buddy and the blonde take off for the dance floor, leaving my muse standing alone at the edge of the dance floor... with Reed fucking Rivers.

  Shit.

  My heart rate instantly spikes. This feels like a catastrophe waiting to happen. Did I sit here on this couch, getting a psychic hand job from those goddamned lyrics, one minute too long?

  Reed says something to my muse that makes her smile. She says something that makes him chuckle. But, thank God, after not too long, Reed motions over his shoulder like, Sorry, I’ve gotta go, and she motions like, Yeah, no problem. And off Reed goes, causing every cell in my body to shudder and buck with relief.

  The minute Reed disappears into the crowd, my girl jolts me by turning her head and looking straight at me again. She flashes me a pointed look—a come-hither glare filled with such heat—such impatience—my dick begins thickening in response. Holy shit! She’s looking at me like it’s already a given that she’s mine and I’m hers and I’ve let this ridiculousness go on long enough. Ha! I think I’m in love. No shrinking violet, indeed.

  I flash her a look that says, Okay, okay, I’m on my way, honey. And she replies with an adorable expression that says, Well, it’s about fucking time.

  “Hey, Daxy!” Fish shouts behind me as I stride away. “Don’t forget to ask her if she’s fucked Reed Rivers!”

  Chapter 3

  Dax

  As I zero in on my Hitwoman Elvis Disco Momma, I’m able to gather some new intel about her, stuff I couldn’t make out from across the room.

  Grayish blue. That’s the color of her stunning eyes. They’re the color of a stormy ocean—the kind that makes sailors disappear without a trace.

  Cleavage. The gloriousness peeking out from her lapels is even more mouthwatering than I’d realized. And that’s saying a lot, seeing as how I was practically drooling onto the couch cushions over there.

  Dragonf
ly. That’s what’s inked on her upper arm, just below her toned right shoulder. A small, elegant, sexy dragonfly. And I’m diggin’ it.

  Stud. Besides being one, she’s also got a tiny stud pierced into her nose, right above her right nostril. It’s barely there. Nothing flashy. But the fact that it’s there at all makes my pulse quicken. I’ve always had a thing for girls with extra piercings. Not to mention a well-placed tattoo. See above.

  I come to a stop in front of her, butterflies whooshing into my stomach. “Hi,” I say lamely, suddenly feeling overwhelmed by the electricity coursing across my skin.

  “Hi.”

  I extend my hand. “Sorry I took so long. I’m Dax.”

  She laughs. “Hi, Dax. I’m Violet. I forgive you.”

  Holy fuck. I’m shook. She’s no shrinking violet... I just now thought those exact lyrics... and it turns out her name is Violet?

  “Is something wrong?” she says. She looks down at her white vest. “Did I spill margarita all over myself?”

  “No, no. You’re spotless.”

  Perfect. Flawless.

  One look at you

  And I’m wild, lawless.

  No vetting gonna happen

  No, not tonight

  Now I’ve seen you close up

  I’d sell my soul to get inside you.

  She’s staring at me, waiting for me to say something. I’m the one who walked over here, after all, and now I’m standing here, thunderstruck. “Sorry,” I say. “This is gonna sound like a cheesy line, but it’s the truth. The minute I saw you, I started writing a song about you. One of the lyrics was ‘She’s no wallflower, no shrinking violet...’ So, to find out your name is Violet is kind of blowing me away.”

  “You’ve been sitting over there writing a song about me?”

  My gaze flickers to her breasts—damn, those are nice—and quickly returns to her stunning eyes. “I have.”

  She smirks like she doesn’t believe me.

  “I know it sounds like a line. But it’s the truth.”

  She cocks an eyebrow. “What are the rest of the lyrics?”

  “Just a bunch of stuff about you being a killer, basically.”

  “A killer?”

  I laugh. “It’s hard to explain.”

  “What kind of song is this?”

  My eyes drift over her dragonfly tattoo before landing on her eyes again. “An alt rock song with a sort of retro, disco groove, I’d say.”

  “Sounds awesome.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Is it a love song?”

  Those tits. Jesus. “More of a sex song.”

  She laughs. “Well, thanks for your honesty.”

  “I’m nothing if not honest, especially when it comes to my songs.”

  She pauses, like she’s holding her breath. And then, “So, I’ve gotta ask. Are you some famous rock star and everyone at this party knows exactly who you are but me? Because, if so, forgive me. I live in my own little bubble.”

  “Nope. The only people who know about my band at the moment are either super into indie bands or from Seattle.”

  “What’s your band called?”

  Her lips. They’re gorgeous. That little piercing in her nose. Holy hell. Everything about her is perfection. Like kryptonite to me. With great effort, I force my eyes to return to hers, even though I want to drink her in, from head to toe, on a running loop. I clear my throat. “My band is called 22 Goats.”

  She stares blankly, and I’m in heaven. If things go the way Reed’s predicting, this might be the last time in a long while—maybe even forever—an intriguing woman at a party has no idea who I am. And, honestly, I’m savoring the moment.

  “You’ve never heard of us,” I say. It’s a statement, not a question.

  “Sorry, no. My friend said you look familiar, though. And she’s really into all kinds of music. Maybe she’s heard of you.”

  “Is your friend from Seattle?”

  “No, San Diego, same as me. But she lives in L.A. now. Do you guys ever play in L.A.?”

  I’d sell my soul to kiss those lips. Not to mention those beautiful tits. “Yeah, but in small clubs. We only moved down here recently. Our biggest following is still in Seattle and the Pacific Northwest.”

  “That’s cool. Good luck growing your following.”

  I’ve got to see those tits, wild and free. “Thanks. We’re working on it.”

  “So, if you don’t mind me asking, if you’re truly not some undercover rock star, how’d you get past those two dudes checking names at the door?”

  “My buddy is Aloha Carmichael’s new bodyguard.”

  Her shoulders relax, like she’s deeply relieved I’m some nobody aspiring musician, rather than the mega rock star she was assuming. She says, “Is your bodyguard friend that African-American guy who was sitting next to you on the couch earlier?”

  “That’s the dude.”

  “That’s so funny. I noticed him staring at Aloha on the dance floor earlier, but I just thought he was really into her.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he is. And he’s her bodyguard.”

  She laughs, and butterflies release into my stomach at the glorious sound. Oh, God, that laugh. It’s guttural. Sexy and raw. The kind of laugh that instantly makes me wonder what kinds of beautiful noises she makes during sex.

  “Well, it looks like Aloha’s in good hands,” she says.

  “I’m surprised you noticed me when my friend was still sitting there. I thought you only noticed me a few minutes ago.”

  “Honey, I noticed you the minute you walked through the front door.”

  My dick tingles at her admission.

  She adds, “But then you got accosted by a gorgeous girl in the drink line, so I figured that was that.”

  “That girl in the bar line was a nonstarter.”

  “Why?”

  “She was boring. Self-involved. Vapid.” And a clout-chaser. “Plus, my friend was interested, and I’m a big believer in the ‘bro code.’”

  “She was pretty, though. And obviously into you.”

  My fingertips feel alive with the desire to touch Violet’s smooth skin—to run my fingers across that dragonfly tattoo. And especially those breasts. “Pretty girls are a dime a dozen,” I say. “But a girl who lights up a room? A girl with charisma—whose personality shines from across the room? Now, that’s a girl I’m interested in getting to know.”

  The radiant smile that splits Violet’s beautiful face simultaneously snatches the air out of my lungs and sends a rocket of desire straight to my dick. But since I’m the asshole who made a big thing about the need for Colin, Fish, and me to “vet” women tonight, I force myself to investigate a bit before going in for the kill. “So, what brings you to this party tonight, Violet? My guess is you’re the next Lady Gaga. Or maybe you’re a famous actress, and I’m just too clueless to recognize you.”

  Violet chuckles. “I’m just a student. Not famous in the slightest and don’t want to be.”

  I exhale with relief from the bottoms of my feet. “Do you go to school in San Diego?”

  “No, that’s where I’m from, but I go to art school in Rhode Island. I’m just here in L.A. for the weekend. It’s my best friend Miranda’s twenty-first birthday.”

  “Are you twenty-one, too?”

  She nods. “You?”

  “Twenty-two.” I can’t help noticing Violet didn’t answer my question about how she got into the party. Is she purposefully evading my question? I decide to ask it again. “How’d you girls get past the dudes at the door?”

  She waves vaguely at the air. “Miranda’s got a connection.”

  Relief washes over me. From the brief interaction I witnessed earlier between Violet’s blonde friend and Reed, I’m guessing her “connection” is Reed Rivers himself. But I don’t blame Violet for not name-dropping. In fact, I respect her for it. Why would she want to give me, some nobody, aspiring musician that information? What if I’m the kind of dude who’d flirt with Violet,
solely to get myself an introduction to Reed? All that matters is that it’s now obvious it’s Violet’s friend, not Violet, who’s got the juice to get them through Reed’s door. Which means Violet is now officially vetted, every bit as much as Colin’s hot backup dancer. And that’s a very good thing, since I can honestly say I’ve never felt this kind of instant chemistry in my life.

  I indicate Violet’s empty tumbler. “You want to get refills and head out to the patio to chat without that Top 40 shit blaring in our ears?”

  Her smile sends a flock of butterflies into my belly. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 4

  Dax

  As soon as Violet and I settle onto a loveseat in the far corner of the patio, our knees touching and heat wafting between us, I take a page out of my older brother Ryan’s playbook: I ask her a question designed to elicit info about her hobbies, hopes, and dreams. Or, as my brother Keane has coined ‘’em, “the ol’ H, H & Ds.”

  I ask, “What are you studying at art college?”

  “Fashion design.”

  I chuckle. “And just like that, your mack-daddy outfit makes so much sense. Is that Gucci or Armani or something like that?”

  Violet’s gorgeous chest expands with pride. “Nope. It’s a Violet original.”

  “You designed that outfit?”

  “I sure did. For a school assignment. We were told to ‘reimagine an icon.’ So, I reimagined Elvis.”

  I palm my forehead. “That song I started writing about you is called, ‘Hitwoman Elvis Disco Momma!’”