Encore: A Standalone Rockstar Novel

by Selena Laurence

  "You're going to go stir-crazy here for a month," she tells me softly, and I think I see a moment of regret in her eyes. It slays me. I can't imagine ever being bored with someone like Carly in town. She's the most interesting person I've ever known. Endlessly, beautifully interesting. "Ross," she whispers, a warning in her tone.

  I gaze down at her, the curve of her lips, the way her blue eyes have gold streaks in the irises.

  "Yeah?" I murmur, one hand beginning to stroke her long brown locks, as if I have no control over it.

  "Behave," she tells me, even as she begins to lean closer.

  I chuckle softly. "I've been behaving. I didn't lay a hand on you last night, even though you were all I thought about all day long."

  She exhales, and I almost hear a moan in that breath. It sets my blood on fire, everything sizzling and hot.

  "You know we can't keep doing..." She waves a hand around between us. "This. It was a one-night deal. We're just friends now. You agreed."

  "Mmhm," I hum as I lean in and brush my lips against her temple. "But sometimes friends kiss."

  She groans. "You're making this really hard."

  "It is hard," I joke. She smacks me on the chest, and I grab her hand before she can pull it away. That rational part of my brain that agreed to the friends-only thing is somewhere inside my head, but it's like I hit mute, because it's not chiming in. All I can hear are whispers of go ahead, you know you want to. Kiss her, touch her, take her.

  "I'm here a whole month. Why don't we use that time to enjoy ourselves? Think of it like a staycation with benefits." I waggle my eyebrows at her, and I can see her fighting a smile.

  "We can't."

  "Actually," I murmur, kissing her cheek, closer to her mouth, "we can. That's the whole thing about being an adult. You get to do what you want."

  "And you want sex," she announces flatly.

  "Hey." I put a finger under her chin, raising her gaze to mine. "I want you. And yeah, sex with you would be fantastic, so it's worth another ask, but if you say 'no’, then I'll respect that and be super happy if you'll just keep hanging out with me."

  She does a little smirk thing with one eyebrow and her sassy mouth. "You'd respect that? If I said 'no'? Because I think I already said 'no' before we went to dinner the other night. That was the deal, right?"

  "Was it?" I try to look thoughtful, even as I continue to hold her hand and my other arm slides around her waist, my palm itching to roam those glorious hips of hers.

  She sighs in exasperation. "Ross."

  "Just think about it," I whisper, before giving her a quick buss on the lips. Then I step back, grinning through the desire to consume those same lips like a bowlful of cherries. "You know it would be fun."

  She finally lets loose with a grin, and it makes the whole rejection worth the pain. "You're hopeless," she teases.

  "Only where you're concerned," I tell her easily. But I realize, like a lightbulb flicking on inside my head, that it's true. I've never bothered to chase a woman. Not since I was twenty-two years old. I didn't even put out any effort to hold on to the mother of my child. I just let her walk away—because I didn't care enough to bother. It makes me feel ashamed, but also makes me wonder. What's changed? Why now?

  Then I look at Carly as she grabs her keys off the kitchen counter of my soon-to-be new house, and I know the answer, even though it scares the hell out of me. It's her. She's the reason I'm ready to do anything, say anything, be anyone, if only she'll let me in her bed, in her presence, in her life.

  And that's a twist I never saw coming.

  14

  Carly

  "Well, hello there, madam realtor," Martha, the ninety-two-year-old owner of Garden and Garage greets me.

  Her pale blue curls are bobbing around on top of her head like cotton candy in a breeze, and her hot pink reading glasses are jammed on the tip of her nose, balancing precariously.

  "And everyone's favorite caterer," she continues, giving Ali an eyebrow wiggle from where her head barely peeps over the store counter.

  "Yes, Martha, I brought you a tart." Ali pulls a small paperboard box from her giant purse, handing it over. "Lemon today," she says. "I was making them up for the Castellano's quinceñera this weekend."

  "Ooh, thank you, dear. This will be just perfect with my afternoon tea." She slides the box under the counter, below the cash register—yes, she still has a real cash register—and then says, "Now, what can I do for you girls today?"

  Garden and Garage is a double-wide shop on Main Street. One half is outdoor decor—fountains, statues, cutesy planter boxes—and the other is consignment furniture—beds, sofas, desks, end tables. Like a big garage sale but nicer, and minus the piles of used clothing people lay out on towels around their driveways with fifty-cent stickers on them.

  Martha's counter with her real cash register, and her bookmarks, bracelets, and baubles, is located right smack at the seam between the two halves of the store.

  "Well, we're helping a client of mine," I begin, praying the name of said client hasn't already made the rounds through town.

  "Ross Macalester?" she asks with a smirk.

  I feel a blush rise in my cheeks as I see Ali stifle a grin next to me. "Yes, Mr. Macalester—"

  "Mmhm," she hums.

  "Any. Way," I grit out. "We're helping Mr. Macalester furnish his new home, and we're on a tight timeline. His daughter will be staying there with him and they need the place furnished by tomorrow."

  Martha shoves her glasses up her nose a touch. "Oh, honey. We can take care of that. Come right this way."

  Two beds, dressers, nightstands, a desk, barstools, a dining set, sectional sofa, and assorted outdoor furniture later, we have gotten eighty percent of Ross's house furnished, and cleaned out most of Martha's existing stock.

  "Well, ladies," Martha says as she tallies up the total, "I have to admit, you've given me my best day of business since that famous writer came through town back in ninety-two."

  "You never would tell anyone who that was," Ali says, gaze narrowing. "It's been over twenty-five years now. Can't you give up the secret?"

  "It's the only secret I've ever kept," Martha says seriously. Which is true. She's one of the town's best gossips, and I can guarantee that as soon as we're out of here, everyone up and down Main Street will know what bed-frame Ross is sleeping on.

  "And why is that?" I ask, genuinely curious.

  "Because she signed on to provide the world with stories to entertain them, not to be the entertainment herself."

  Ali nods thoughtfully. "Wow. That's really considerate of you, Martha."

  "So will the same rules apply to Ross—Mr. Macalester?" I ask.

  Martha seems to consider it. Ali glances at me with a raised brow.

  "Well, it's a little different because Ross does live shows. People come to watch him play the music as much as for the music itself. He's agreed to be part of the entertainment."

  There's a strange logic to what she says, but I'd still like to win some privacy for Ross. Especially since he has Sara with him.

  "Even rockstars and actors are entitled to privacy, though," Ali says. "He gives them part of himself onstage and through his music. That doesn't mean they have the right to every part of him."

  Yes! That! Go Ali.

  Martha smiles kindly. "Of course. But you understand why people might think there's a different obligation than with the writer?"

  Ali nods.

  "But here's the main thing," Martha continues. "Ross isn't just any old rockstar. He's our rockstar. And now he's home, and he's bringing his little girl with him. He could go anywhere with her, but he chose here. Why do you think that is?"

  I'm reminded then why it's important not to dismiss our elders. Martha's lived a lot of life, and she's learned a lot about humans. She gets it, gets why Ross is doing what he's doing, and I want to kiss her for it.

  She answers her own rhetorical question. "He's home because he knows here is where he won’t
be an attraction or entertainment. He'll be himself. And we might ask for the occasional autograph, but we'll be happy to let him do his thing." She smiles. "Now, I have two secrets to keep." Then she mimes zipping her lips and hands me the receipt and Ross's credit card back.

  The next day, I watch as the last of the delivery trucks pull away from the curb of Ross's new bungalow.

  "Wow," Ali says as she walks up the front steps. "That was a ton of stuff."

  "Luckily, money can buy most anything. I got the new appliances delivered all the way from Chicago, and for an additional fee they swung by IKEA and grabbed all the household stuff I'd chosen."

  "He's damn lucky you were able to do all this for him."

  I nod as I open the door and usher her inside. "There wasn't much choice, though, he's been flying all day to L.A. and now on the way back with Sara. If there was going to be a house to live in, someone else had to manage it."

  Ali gives the living room, with its charming vintage moulding and red oak floors, a once over. "We did good," she tells me. "It's adorable."

  "Well, it's kind of bare bones right now. I'm hoping Ross and Sara can pick out knick-knacks and wall hangings together. I got all white sheets and towels and dishes. That way they can add things like duvet covers and throw pillows in accent colors."

  "Ooh!" Ali exclaims as she walks through the dining room to where the kitchen connects with a long bar top. "Nice appliances."

  I smile. "It's amazing what you can get if you have an unlimited budget."

  She pivots and faces me. "You're not getting too involved with him, are you?" Her expression is one of real concern. "I get the temptation, but Quinn isn't done with high school, and I can't imagine you traveling on tour with Odyssey, fending off all Ross's groupies."

  I laugh, even as part of me tightens with the knowledge that I'm walking a tightrope with this man, and Ali can see it.

  "We're just friends. I've made that clear and he's agreed. I'm not eighteen, Ali. I know this is a lark for Ross. But I do hope it changes his relationship with Sara. He's a good guy. She deserves to have a real dad, and he deserves to bond with his daughter."

  She nods, but before she can say anything else, there's the sound of a car engine outside, and I walk to the window to see Ross pulling into the drive.

  "They're here," I tell her.

  "Oh boy. Show time," she responds.

  Ross exits the car, and I can tell by the look on his face that things aren't all roses and sunshine. He walks to the trunk and begins to pull out suitcases. Five of them in total. Expensive. Big. Filled to the brim. As he's hoisting the monstrosities up the driveway and onto the porch, two at a time, the passenger door opens and out steps a thin, scantily-clad teen with Ross's auburn hair and a sullen expression. She's holding a little white Westie terrier, and as Ross places the last suitcase on the porch, he turns to her.

  I feel like a creeper, peeking around the living room curtains, but Ali has come to stand directly behind me, peeking over my shoulder, so at least I'm not the only poorly mannered person in the room. The front window is partially open, so we can hear the conversation on the porch outside.

  "See?" Ross says as Sara stands in the driveway, looking obstinate and miserable. "It's not a shack, and Grove City isn't a truck stop. There are lots of things to do here—movies, parks, the river, shopping malls."

  "Oh my God," she snaps from twenty feet away. "As if the Super Target is going to have anything I'd want." Her little dog yips and squirms, so she sets him down. He promptly scampers up the steps of the porch and puts his front paws on Ross's shins.

  "Looks like Blanco's ready for the adventure." Ross's voice is falsely cheerful, but I can tell he's about to crack.

  Sara huffs and begins to stomp up the driveway toward Ross.

  "Holy teen hellion," Ali whispers behind me. "You actually committed us to helping that little piece of work?"

  I slowly release the breath I've been holding. "She's been through a lot. Her school just burned down, the dad she never sees pulled her away from L.A. and all her friends. I'm sure she'll adjust," I murmur, as I watch her reach the porch and glare at her father.

  Ali snorts in derision. "Keep hope alive and all that, but I think I need to go home and cook dinner."

  I turn to scowl at her.

  She gives me a phony grin, then strides to the door, just as Ross opens it and comes inside, weighted down by a suitcase in either hand, Sara stomping in behind him. His gaze darts from me to Ali and I see the panic in his eyes.

  "Hi Ross!" Ali says, giving him an air kiss as she floats by. "Bye Ross!" Then she's out the door.

  "Hey," Ross says as he sets the suitcases down and looks awkward.

  "Hi." I step forward and hold out my hand to Sara. "I'm Carly, a friend of your dad's. And I'm the realtor who's been helping get the house ready for you guys. How was your trip?"

  Sara stares at my hand but doesn't make any effort to shake it, so I drop mine. I hear Ross make a noise of disapproval, but I give him a bright smile and say, "While you get the other suitcases, I can show Sara where her room is."

  He nods, his brow furrowed in displeasure, but I ignore him and focus on his daughter.

  At fourteen, Sara still has that young girl's body—long legs, narrow hips, feet that look a bit too big for the rest of her. Her eyes are big and expressive, her skin smooth, and her hair long and full, like her dad's. She's still a couple of inches shorter than me, but I'm guessing by her legs, she'll be my height before long.

  She holds her little dog in front of her like a shield, and as I watch her, I see a moment where the angry bravado falters and leaves nothing but a sad, scared young girl. My heart squeezes and I remind myself that it's going to take patience to get this girl to open up to her dad and the world outside of L.A.

  "I bet Grove City is really different from what you're used to," I say, as I gesture for her to follow me.

  "Uh yeah," she mutters. "Understatement."

  "I remember when I was your age, all I wanted to do was go someplace that had designer clothes and movie stars. It must be really fun to live like you do all the time."

  She shrugs lightly. "It's okay."

  We reach the stairs at the back of the kitchen that lead to her attic bedroom.

  "Here's the bathroom that's yours," I tell her, pointing to the door opposite the stairs. "Your dad has his own, so you can do whatever you want with this one."

  She peeks inside the cozy space, complete with antique claw foot tub and bead board on the lower walls.

  "Cool tub," she says grudgingly.

  I smile. "Now let's see your room."

  I lead her up the narrow staircase, and into the big room with its angled ceilings and dormer windows. The main dormer looks out over the street and has a built-in window seat. Along one wall is the big, white iron bed I chose, along a shorter wall is the cherry wood double dresser, and in the corner is an overstuffed chair upholstered in white chenille.

  "I tried to get pretty plain furniture. Your dad wanted things to blend with the architectural style of the house, so nothing too contemporary. Everything's neutral so you can add whatever colors you want. And I bet your dad would take you to pick out things to hang on the walls."

  She sets her dog down on the floor and gives the space a cursory look. "I'm only here for a month. This is fine."

  She looks so lost and alone, the mother in me yearns to take her in my arms and tell her everything will be all right. But the person she really needs that from is her father, who has just lugged the first batch of suitcases up the stairs and is watching us warily.

  "Everything looks great, Carly," he says softly, setting the suitcases down. "I can't thank you enough."

  I see that while she's trying to look as if she's not paying attention, Sara is very attuned to Ross and to me. Her gaze darts between us, her brow furrowed, like a toddler's.

  "I'm glad it all worked out," I answer. "I should probably let you two get settled, though, so I'll just h
ead out."

  Ross's expression turns to panic, and when I glance at Sara, hers does, as well.

  I can't leave them like this. I promised Ross I'd help, and this girl is miserable. Somewhere in the back of my head, a little voice whispers, Sucker, but I sigh and forge ahead.

  "But how would you both like to come have dinner at my house?" I turn to Sara. "I live just a few blocks away, so you can learn where my house is and you're welcome there anytime."

  She looks at Ross, and he gives me a relieved smile. "We'd love that. Thanks."

  "Okay then, six thirty?"

  "Sure. What can we bring?"

  I tell him not to worry about it. I'll make some pasta and a salad, and if things are really awful, I can suggest we all walk downtown for ice cream. Arrangements confirmed, I leave Ross and Sara alone. I'm not sure they can survive the next two hours together, but at least they have nice white towels to soak up the blood.

  15

  Ross

  "What do you mean he only eats gourmet food from an organic farm in Vermont?" I ask, as Sara stands obstinately facing me down in our new kitchen.

  "Just what I said. You can't just give him grocery store dog food." Her tone communicates her horror at this idea. "It has grains in it. He'll get ear infections and a rash on his tummy."

  I run a hand through my hair in frustration. "Why didn't your mom say anything about this to me?"

  She shrugs, but the way she won’t meet my gaze tells me something's rotten in Denmark.

  "Sara." My voice conveys a warning.

  "Maybe I was supposed to text you about it yesterday so you could get it ordered in time."

  Shit. I grit my teeth but remind myself not to lose my cool. I want her to stay. If I come down on her, she'll just call her mom and ask to go home.