Rock King
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by Tara Thompson
Excerpt from Rock Legend copyright © 2018 by Tara Thompson
Cover photography © Henrik Sorensen/GettyImages. Cover design by Elizabeth Turner Stokes. Cover copyright © 2018 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
Forever Yours
Hachette Book Group
1290 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10104
forever-romance.com
twitter.com/foreverromance
First published as an ebook and as a print on demand: February 2018
Forever Yours is an imprint of Grand Central Publishing. The Forever Yours name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
The Hachette Speakers Bureau provides a wide range of authors for speaking events. To find out more, go to www.hachettespeakersbureau.com or call (866) 376-6591.
ISBNs: 978-1-5387-1278-8 (ebook), 978-1-5387-1277-1 (POD edition)
E3-20171212-DANF
Table of Contents
Cover
Title
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
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
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Author’s Note
A Preview of Rock Legend
About the Author
You Might Also Like...
Newsletters
To the awkward thirteen-year-old girl that forever lives inside the women we become—may you always harbor a secret rock star crush.
Acknowledgments
A huge thank-you to my agent extraordinaire, Jessica Alvarez of BookEnds Literary Agency. Your critiques and career guidance are invaluable!
Lexi Smail—within a half hour of meeting you, I was dying to work with you. Rock King is so much stronger because of your efforts. Thank you for seeing the potential in this series and inviting me to join the Forever family of authors. Many thanks also to the rest of the Forever team: the talented cover designers, the publicity team, Kallie Shimek, and everyone else who has played a role in bringing the Nothing but Trouble boys (and the women who love them) to life.
I owe a huge debt to Jeannie Moon, of the Long Island Romance Writers of America chapter. Not only did you encourage me to attend your annual luncheon, but you pointed me toward Lexi’s table. Three weeks later, I had a three-book deal with Forever.
Sue Bee, from my very first book, you have been a valuable sounding board. Thank you for all of your advice and encouragement, and especially for your unfiltered honesty. (I hope you approve of Shane’s hair. ;) )
Moments by Andrea, thank you for the fabulous headshot. And Heather Herve (and her lovely interns), thank you for the lovely profile in Good Morning Wilton.
There are several authors who have been beyond generous with their time and expertise. Alessandra Torre, your invaluable website www.alessandratorreink.com is a must for every new author, and you have built a virtual cheering section via Facebook. The writing team of Riley Mackenzie, you guys are amazing and I’m so glad we’re friends. Rochelle Weinstein, I’m so glad we met and I can’t believe we haven’t known each other forever! Shelly Bell, you write sizzle like no other, and you are the sweetest. And many thanks to my fellow authors of CTRWA!!
When Jessica Alvarez was submitting my first book, Penthouse Player, to publishers, she told me to write anything while we waited to hear back—except the next book in our proposed series. I had recently read Heidi McLaughlin’s Forever My Girl and the first two books of A .L. Jackson’s Bleeding Stars series. Heidi and Amy, I loved your stories so much that I decided to try my hand at writing a rock star myself. Shane Hawthorne takes some of his DNA from Sebastian Stone and Liam Westbury.
Thank you to Jill Saracino and Joan Gibbons for being such great cheerleaders through Facebook—I love seeing all your posts of support!!
I am lucky to have a great group of girlfriends surrounding me. My CSHHS ladies—and in particular, Robin, who forgives me for ignoring her calls when I’m writing.
My neighbor Cindy, you are a wonderful friend to me and an absolute blessing to my kids. Moving next door to you was one of the smartest decisions Stephen and I ever made!
My favorite blondes: Devon, Jessica, Sarah M, and Sarah T. I adore you all!
Lisa D, Andrea B, Maggie B, Taryn R, Josephine J, Melissa P, Josee T, Melissa S, Jennifer J—thank you for your support and encouragement.
Anne Flanders, thank you for pointing out how egregiously I was breaking rule number one in writing—no head hopping.
My brave brother, a NYC police detective, helped me with the legal consequences of Delaney’s accident. Any mistakes I made in this book are entirely my own.
Grandma, you left me nearly twenty years ago, and not a day goes by that I don’t miss you. For any smokers reading this—put the cigarette down. Think of the people in your life who will one day watch you struggle to breathe and, when you lose that battle, will miss you desperately.
Thank you to my parents for your continued encouragement and for being great grandparents.
Stephen, thank you for being a wonderful husband and supporting my dreams. I love you. Logan, Chloe, and Pierce, thank you for being so considerate of my writing time. I am blessed to be your mother.
Our lives are enriched by our sweet rescue puppy, Pixie. The wonderful organization that brought Pixie into our lives is Goofy Foot Dog Rescue, and if you would like to welcome a dog into your family or donate to their organization, please visit their website: http://www.goofyfootrescue.org. And if you would like to see more pictures of Pixie (and who wouldn’t?) please sign up for my newsletter at https://goo.gl/394ppn—she’s my writing buddy!
And a huge, huge thank-you to my readers, bloggers, and reviewers. Without you and your love for sexy stories well told, writing them wouldn’t be nearly as fulfilling.
Chapter One
Shane
Fucking Malibu.
The last traces of sleep evaporated as I stared out at the sea from the terrace off my bedroom, my right hand running through the hair on my head as my left idly plowed a destination farther south. I was naked, but the waist-high plants along the perimeter would block the view of any intrepid paparazzo. Inhaling air thick with salt and
fog, I closed my eyes and listened to the rush of the waves crash along the beach.
Normally the rhythm of the tides soothed me.
But not today.
My eyes snapped open, scowling at the relentless surf. The sun was just cresting the horizon, the ocean a quivering mass of gray and blue, littered with bruised shards of purple and orange. It wasn’t the view that was pissing me off. I’d been on edge before I got out of bed. Before I went to sleep. Hell, I’d been a bundle of nerves since we finished the album.
One more week until the latest Nothing but Trouble tour kicked off.
One more week and, for two hours out of every twenty-four, my view would be stadiums packed with thousands of fans screaming my name.
The rest would be filled with impersonal hotel rooms, private planes, tour buses, and way too many people I didn’t want to look at—let alone talk to—fighting for my attention. Autographs. Selfies. Groupies with glossy lips whispering invitations for everything from blow jobs to backdoor action. Easy sex with an STD chaser.
No thanks.
My last counterfeit companion walked out a month ago, when I’d been spending every available second in the studio tweaking the last couple of songs, which had taken forever to get right. She’d already found someone else to sink her claws into, an up-and-coming actor who made sure he was photographed in public, the more compromising the situation the better, to cover up the fact that, behind closed doors, he was about as interested in tits as a kid with a milk allergy.
Not that I missed her. It was time, and we both knew it. She had gotten what she’d wanted out of being Shane Hawthorne’s “girlfriend”: name recognition, a place on the Best Dressed lists, even a small part in a big-budget movie. It was time for someone new. Past time, actually. Someone who engendered more than apathy.
Except I hadn’t met her yet. Maybe she didn’t exist.
Of course, if she did, I sure as hell didn’t deserve her.
My gut twisted, forming a gnarled, ugly clump leaching anxiety and tension into my bloodstream. The truth was, no one deserved me. I was a jagged knife, the tip of my blade edged with poison. Brutal. Messy. Lethal.
The wind was strong this morning, stronger than usual, and each salty gust chafed at my skin. I welcomed the abrasion, wishing I could be swept up. Swept away. Days like these were too long, littered with too many opportunities to get lost in my own mind. That was a dangerous place for me. Dangerous for everyone around me.
Being on the road sucked. But staying in one place, trapped with my memories, with my guilt…well, not even a beach house in Malibu could make that bearable.
From the half-open door, I heard my phone. Recognizing the ringtone, I headed back inside to take my agent’s call. “Hey, Travis.” He slept even less than I did, and that was saying something.
“I’m just confirming. You’re coming tonight, right?” Travis only had one setting: steamroll.
My disgruntled sigh fogged up the screen. “Let me guess. There’s someone you want me to meet.”
“Of course. Several actually. You’ll have your pick.”
Agent. Lawyer. Matchmaker. Travis was a one-stop shop for me. He’d been on the hunt for my next girlfriend for a while now, and I was still single. Neither of us was happy about it. Left to my own devices, trouble was always too close for comfort. “Fine. I’ll be there.”
Disconnecting the call, I took my first deep breath all day. Travis and I had a deal. He found candidates worthy of being “Shane Hawthorne’s girlfriend,” but I had ultimate approval. I don’t mean prostitutes, either. Hell, I practically had to beat chicks back with a stick. Everywhere I went, there were girls begging me to fuck them against the nearest wall, or dropping to their knees on the dirty floor of a public restroom. Three hundred and sixty-five days a year was my only constraint when it came to sex.
But life on the road was different, and the first few weeks of a tour were especially nerve-racking. So many new people, so many moving parts. It wasn’t easy to get back into the groove of things. Waking up in a new city every day, surrounded by a sea of new faces—I needed the people in my inner circle to stay the same. My agent, bandmates, tour manager…and my girlfriend.
I know how it sounds. Sleazy with a capital S. But sex isn’t part of the deal.
Not that it didn’t happen, of course, just that it wasn’t what I was paying them for.
Being the girlfriend of a rock star shouldn’t be a hard position to fill, but it was. Sexy, beautiful, reasonably intelligent—those were basic requirements for someone I’d be spending months in close quarters with. And she needed to be drama-free, someone who liked my music but wasn’t a super-fan, stalker chick. My “girlfriends” were a thin veil of armor against the hordes of groupies that clawed their way toward me, offering anything I could ever want. And too much I didn’t need.
Truthfully, I didn’t mind the groupies. At my core I’m a hustler, too. Been hauling around a five-pound sack filled with ten pounds of problems since the day I was born. But I’ve made it, busted my way to the top of the fucking heap. Lead singer of Nothing but Trouble. A list of hit songs so long a tattooist couldn’t fit it on my arm if he tried. More money than I knew what to do with. A dozen Grammys at last count, and even an Oscar for best original song last year, the only golden statue awarded to an otherwise unremarkable movie.
I hired Travis years ago to build up my career, and now we were in protection mode, just trying not to crash and burn. Shane Hawthorne was a brand now, one worth millions. And yet, losing everything we had worked for would be so easy. Just one offer of things I couldn’t resist: an asshole named Jack Daniel and that gorgeous white powder that made my brain feel like a shaken snow globe, cloudy with glitter.
So, maybe tonight I would meet my next girlfriend. Someone contractually obligated to be by my side at every show and party, every press junket and photo op. Someone with me day and night, pretty enough I wouldn’t mind the view. Someone with a fun-loving personality, who knew better than to actually fall in love with me.
I’ve done a lot of stupid things in my life, but that was a line I had yet to cross. A line so far in the distance it wasn’t even a smudge on the horizon. And I wasn’t heading in its direction anytime soon. Preferably never.
Love was the one luxury I couldn’t afford.
Assuming I felt a spark of connection with one of the women at Travis’s house tonight, he would lock her into a nondisclosure so tight the press would never find out that she was just an employee, a prop. That our relationship was fake.
What she wouldn’t know, what no one except Travis knew, was that we would have something in common.
Because everything about me is fake.
Shane Hawthorne, resident King of Rock n’ Roll and the cause of dripping panties everywhere, from shrieking tweens to bored housewives, is a sham. More myth than man.
Shane Hawthorne doesn’t exist. He’s the stage name I used for the first time at sixteen, expecting to be hauled off by a pair of cops if I so much as breathed my real name.
Sometimes I’ve wondered what my fans would think if they knew the truth. Would I still be hailed as People magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive if anyone knew who I really was?
Who am I? I don’t even know anymore.
Fraud.
Runaway.
Addict.
Murderer.
Not so sexy now, am I?
Delaney
“Delaney? Delaney Fraser, is that you?”
I froze as the familiar notes of a voice I hadn’t heard in years practically stomped up my spine, leaving angry hives in its wake. The voice, and the person belonging to it, were from a life I’d left behind several years ago.
Bronxville, the insulated Manhattan suburb where I’d been raised, was not merely three thousand miles from Los Angeles; it was in an entirely different galaxy. And yet, this particular meteor had dropped into the upscale steakhouse where I worked without disturbing anything but my peace of mind.
My
pivot was purposefully slow, needing a minute to firmly affix a smile onto my face and every ounce of concentration I could muster to remain standing. “Piper. Wow, small world. I didn’t recognize you.”
“Me?” Piper Hastings, former queen bee of the Bronxville School, took a step back and looked me up and down as if I were a mannequin wearing an outfit she was considering. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”
I managed a small shrug. “We’ve all changed since graduation, I guess.” Although, I’ve probably changed more than most. The last time I saw Piper, I’d been solidly on the chubby side of average, sporting braces and barely tamed hair. The excess weight was gone now, along with the braces, and I kept my hair under control via daily altercations with a salon-strength straightener, a life-changing invention I’d only recently discovered.
Piper wasn’t buying my brush-off. “You’ve more than changed—you’re practically a new person. Or at least half of the one you used to be, anyway. What did you do?” She’d always been irritatingly tenacious, a dog with a bone.
How exactly to answer Piper’s invasive questions? Heat rose up my neck, probably depositing telltale patches on my cheeks, too. Gee, Piper, after the Accident, food just didn’t hold much appeal anymore. “Nothing really, just a hormone imbalance.” These days, lies came easy.
But Piper only nodded enthusiastically, her perfect blond hair swinging. “I’m so jealous. I have to practically live at the yoga studio just to fit into my jeans!” Her face was expectant, as if waiting for a round of applause. I gave none, and she continued her rapid-fire questions. “So, what are you doing in California? Did you transfer?”
My eyes narrowed. Could she really not know? After my father was held responsible for my mother’s death, life as I knew it came to a screeching halt. “Something like that.” I proffered a question to stem the tide coming from Piper. “How about you?”
Piper flaunted a Colgate-bright smile. “I graduated from UCLA two years ago and now I’m working in public relations for a Hollywood agent. Super-agent, really. Wild horses couldn’t drag me back to Bronxville.”