Savage: A Rockstar Romance (The Rock Legend Series Book 1) Read online

  My voice raises an octave. “You want proof, huh?”

  “Yes!” she yells.

  “Fine. Proof is what you want—proof is what you’ll get!” I glare at the pompous, Mrs. Samuelson. “Meet me in Sky’s studio in five-minutes.”

  I prefer playing my own guitar, but Sky’s Gibson will have to do. I remove it from its stand and plug it into the amp. I flip a few switches on the soundboard and plug in the microphone.

  Mama Samuelson sits not even six-feet from me, pretending that her nails are so damned interesting she has to study them like a college course textbook.

  Malik is standing against the wall by the exit. Ever the bodyguard. Not sure why he’s at the door, because he damn sure can’t keep me here if I don’t want to be here—unless he pulls a weapon on me, that is. Even though I’m confident in my fighting skills, I’d think twice before going up against a gun.

  I tune the guitar by ear and strum a few bars to see how it sounds. Perfect. I don’t dare play one of my own songs because then the jig would truly be up.

  It’s inconceivable that Mama Samuelson, despite having a gigantic stick up her ass, wouldn’t know a little something about rock, especially The Savages.

  I decide to play a special song. While accompanying Sky to her practice sessions this week, there was a song she sang that really spoke to me. It’s called “Masquerade” and the lyrics perfectly describe us. I’m going to play it and put my own spin on it, of course. Hopefully, it’ll convince Mama Samuelson and Malik that I know my shit. But if push comes to shove, I’ll play one of my unpublished songs that no one has heard.

  I take an elastic hair band out of my pocket and pull my hair back. Then I play the first bar. Malik grins like a Cheshire cat, bobbing his head to the beat.

  I finish the second bar, and he runs out of the room like his ass is on fire. Not sure where he’s going, I continue to play for Mama Samuelson. I finish the elaborate intro with a few chords that shake the room. I turn the volume down and begin singing.

  Mama Samuelson’s eyes widen—my only clue that she’s listening to the lyrics.

  No one knows who I am.

  They think they know me…

  But, they don’t really give a damn.

  She taps her foot as I continue playing and singing Sky’s lyrics as if they’re my own.

  I grin because I know I’ve proven Sky’s know-it-all mother wrong. Not many guitarists play as well as I do, even on their best days, and I’m sure she knows her own daughter’s lyrics like they’re her own—any good manager would.

  I continue singing Sky’s words, adding little riffs where her regular guitarist had been lazy, making the melody even richer.

  I entertain them with my songs,

  Though distraction lives in a beat of my own making.

  They say they love me,

  But, in reality, it’s too much of an undertaking.

  The music of my life...

  Is just a masquerade,

  But, I won’t give up until the final chord is played.

  Malik re-enters the room with Sky on his heels at the chorus.

  She’s baffled at first, then, she smiles, recognizing her song.

  Malik pushes her toward me, encouraging her to join me at the mic.

  Sky seems reluctant in the beginning, but the hunger in her is palpable. The music is calling to her. So, after a brief hesitation, she joins me at the mic. Her harmony blends well with my melody. Our voices intertwine effortlessly.

  At the bridge, I can’t help myself—I get lost in an elaborate guitar solo. It feels so fucking good to have an axe in my hands again, bringing music to life in the way only Savage Saban can. My nerves thrum as my body absorbs the energy that always surrounds me when I play. Audiences ate that shit up and I loved feeding off their energy, creating a vicious cycle—one that literally almost swallowed me whole.

  Thoughts of how the very thing I love killed Kim and almost killed me, rush into my mind like a cold dash of water. It awakens me from the musical zone that threatens to overtake me.

  As I strum the final chord, I open my eyes and survey the faces of my audience. Everyone is staring at me with wide eyes and slack mouths. Sky’s face, in particular, is flushed in awe. Malik has a wide smile and incredulous dark eyes. Mama Samuelson, on the other hand, appears both slightly offended and totally surprised.

  I’ve either impressed the hell out of them, or scared the ever-loving fuck out of everyone. I’m not sure which I prefer.

  FOUR

  SKYLAR

  DAY SEVEN

  It’s my birthday and I’m having brunch with my staff. Brody sits on my right and Amber on my left.

  Despite my explicit instructions of “no gifts,” there’s a table in the corner laden with birthday presents.

  I haven’t had an opportunity to speak with Brody alone since Friday night. After the fiasco with my mother, we mutually decided to call it a night—with all of the opponents retreating to their respective corners of the octagon—to use a little MMA terminology. It’s just as well. When my mother showed up with her accusations, she’d effectively killed the mood.

  I still can’t get over Brody’s musical chops. I have no idea who he was when he was in the biz, but I can’t help but feel like I should bow down to him and chant the Wayne’s World mantra, “We’re not worthy!”

  Malik offered to do some more digging because he’s determined to find out more about Brody’s rock band, but I warned him to drop it. I want Brody to share his past with me because he wants to, not because he has to.

  Like a teenager with a crush, I’ve been stealing glances at Brody all morning. My awe renewing each time I remember how spectacular he’d made my song sound.

  I glance his way again and notice that he’s talking to my drummer, Snare, who is sitting next to him. For a few rapturous seconds I get caught up in admiring his beauty. Full lips making way for high, defined cheekbones, and a clean-shaven jawline meeting at a neatly dimpled chin. Brody must feel my eyes on him because he turns back toward me. Good God!

  “Do you need anything?” he asks, concern lacing his gorgeous brow.

  I shake my head. “No, nothing. Nothing at all.”

  He smiles. “You aren’t nervous about tonight, are you?” His voice is low and soft.

  I give him a half-cocked smile. “No, but I was wondering…”

  He rolls his eyes and slowly shakes his head. “Oh no, Friday night was a one-off!”

  “How do you know what I was about to say?”

  “You’ve got that look.”

  “What look?”

  “That ‘Brody, can you play with me tonight on just that one song,’ look.”

  His mock falsetto sounds ridiculous, but I forego the opportunity to tease him about it.

  I playfully punch him in the arm. “Can you blame me for trying?”

  “No, I can’t. I’m not being conceited but, if I was still in a band, I’d want me to play too.”

  I giggle at his candor. “Umm… no, you didn’t just say that!”

  “I was half-kidding but, believe me, I’m as serious as a heart attack when I say I’m not playing tonight.”

  I touch his arm. “Will you at least think about it?”

  He remains steadfast in his decision. “Nope. Never.”

  I frown, disappointed. “Never is a long time.”

  Brody grins. “I know.”

  He’s being more stubborn than the affable PA he’s been all week. Pouting, I nudge him with my shoulder. “I’m going to wear you down. You just wait and see, Mr. Kent.”

  He takes a sip of punch, and his voice goes low, bearing an ominious, regretful tone. “Sky, please don’t keep asking me to go on stage with you. The truth is I almost didn’t take this gig just because you’re a musician.”

  “What? Really?” My voice trembles.

  He stares at me with a seriousness I haven’t seen before. “Yes.”

  Brody’s definitive tone makes it very clear to me th
at he isn’t going to budge. I need to tread carefully with him. His pain must go way deeper than I imagined. Something or someone had clearly thrown him off his musical path. I wonder what did it or, better yet, who had he lost and how?

  I sigh with resignation. “Okay, okay, I won’t pressure you to go on stage with me.”

  I say it exactly how he phrased it for a reason. He may not want to go on stage live with me, but I might be able to eventually coax him into working with me in the studio. Perhaps his issue has more to do with performance anxiety than simply not wanting to play anymore. The confident guy who covered my song Friday night was born to rock out. Where did he go? And what would it take to pull him out again?

  My mother makes her oh-so fashionably late entrance, and I shelve thoughts of Brody and his talent for the time being. She elegantly slides into the seat across from Amber and next to Malik. She places her Louis Vuitton purse in the seat next to her and greets my staff. She approaches me, beaming. Spotting Brody, she sighs and rolls her eyes.

  What is her problem? She is so rude. Brody proved his credentials the other night in a manner that should have laid all her misgivings to rest. Why was she still acting like an overprotective bitch? Like the chameleon she is, her festive mood reappears as quickly as it eluded her once she reaches me. “Happy Birthday, my darling girl!” she squeals and gives me European-style air kisses on both cheeks.

  I laugh silently and shake my head. It appears that my mother is the only one, of course, who took me at my word and didn’t bring a gift.

  Why am I not surprised?

  My sold-out Sunday night concert is a resounding success. For the finale, I emerge from a festive cake that is raised from below stage level and emblazoned with my name. Alyssa leads my fans in singing “Happy Birthday” to me. Twenty-one sparkling candles flicker behind us as Alyssa and I bring the house down, or more accurately, up on their feet for a standing ovation.

  After that, I enthusiastically belt out a medley of my early hits, encouraging fans to sing along with them. The second half of the set consists of my newer pieces, complete with my crazy, sexy, cool dancers who flank me with choreographed precision for each number.

  During the finale, Alyssa brings all of the back-up singers, dancers, and both bands together on stage to perform a magical cover of “Celebrate.” The lights go down on this final song, and I run backstage.

  Brody greets me with enthusiasm, cheering loudly, and displaying the “rock on” symbol with his talented fingers.

  I leap into his strong, warm arms and he swings me around.

  We make our way through the throng of backstage dwellers and well-wishers toward my dressing room. I ignore the magazine reporters and music bloggers backstage as they clamor for reactions. Rushing inside, we close the door and laugh, giddy with how well everything went onstage.

  “I’m so proud of how quickly we got through the backstage crowd tonight,” I say, gasping for breath.

  My chest is heaving and I’m high on adrenaline from my successful kickoff tour. My heart thuds like the beating drums in my set. My attraction for Brody bubbles beneath the surface of my dewy skin. It gathers like a horde of butterflies, fluttering low in my belly.

  Sweaty and pumped, my back falls against the door. Brody faces me, and our eyes lock. I welcome his invasion of my personal space. Something hot sparks between us, like electricity only more intense… and deadly. It feels like it is the most natural thing in the world for us to share our first kiss now, because I’m dying to feel his lips against mine. Then it happens. Our lips touch, and I am totally, utterly consumed. It’s a paradigm-shifting first kiss.

  He moves so quickly, I barely register it. He pins me against the door—the metal cool against my feverish skin. His lips are softer than I imagined, I think, as our bodies meld into one. I’m an aching, throbbing, pulsating mass of nerve endings that are so sensitive to touch, I’m quivering. My skin screams for us to get even closer, and I wiggle until there is zero space left between us.

  Our tongues invade each other’s mouths like heat-seeking missiles. Before we know it, we are locked together—unbreakable and insatiable. I’ve never felt anything like this before. Connor Who? Brody’s kiss takes me from zero to infinity so quickly, I’ve already forgotten what all the kisses that came before him were like. We massage and explore each other so urgently, my weak knees buckle.

  This… our kiss, literally takes my breath away, leaving me breathless and light-headed. I can’t take the intensity so I gently push him away.

  My God! Brody Kent has some serious skills.

  I take a deep breath and grin up at him. He’s so tall. Even with me being in my stage heels, he’s still a few inches taller than me. I also see that I’ve absolutely wrecked his man-bun. Damn it!

  I giggle. “Oh, your hair.”

  He reaches up and pulls the elastic band out of it. His hair cascades over his broad shoulders. He laughs. “Problem solved.”

  The way his electric blue eyes search my eager—very eager face—all hooded and sexy, causes me to get even wetter between my legs, if that’s even possible. I cup his cheeks and kiss him passionately on the lips. I briefly contemplate pushing him away because he looks like he’s about to pounce on me and pin me against my dressing room door again. But I decide against it. I want him.

  The second kiss is a little less intense, but I can still feel his arousal through his jeans—proof-positive that I won’t be disappointed if anything happens tonight. I want something to happen so badly that I ache. It’s then that I decide whole-heartedly to cast off the restrictions of my traditionalism, throwing caution to the wind. But, when we finally come up for air, I feel the need to set the record straight.

  “So… about Friday night,” I begin. “I wish we’d never answered the door…”

  “What?” He looks at me confused. “And miss the wrath of Elaine Samuelson?” He is teasing.

  I shake my head still embarrassed by my mother’s behavior. “I’m so sorry she was so disbelieving and horrendous to you, but she was right about one thing...”

  He twists his lips sarcastically. “What’s that?”

  His eyes are so blue with desire I feel like I could drown in them. But I can’t drown. I have to tell him.

  I take a deep breath and spit it out, “I want you, Brody. I wanted you then, and I still want you now.”

  He kisses me, this time rather impatiently.

  Someone bangs on the door. Damn it! We look at each other and decide to ignore the knocking. Maybe the person will go away. He places his lips against mine and pries my mouth open. His tongue is insatiable and greedy, so I give him what he wants. We return to kissing with urgency, but then it becomes tender, gentle, and sweet—oh so sweet. I take our kissing escapades a step further when I join my tongue with his gentle caresses. I moan into his mouth while the nerves along my spine become incinerated by his kiss.

  Our lips are wet, soft, and desperate to taste the desire kindled between us. Brody buries his hands in my hair, his lower body twisting against mine to get even closer. I hastily yank up his shirt, desperate to touch his burning skin.

  I slide my fingers across his glistening six-pack. The tips of our tongues touch and release as our kiss becomes more and more exhilarating with each deep, slow pull of our adjoining mouths. This is the best first kiss I’ve ever had. Bar none.

  Yet the banging on my dressing room door continues. I don’t want to let Brody go until I’ve had my fill of his drug-inducing kisses, so I continue to ignore it.

  I’m guessing it will take an embarrassingly long time to get my fill, but I don’t care, and judging by the way Brody continues to pin me against the door, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t either.

  FIVE

  BRODY

  DAY EIGHT

  “This deejay is sick, isn’t he Brody?” Malik yells to me over the music.

  He’s a proud guy, so this is probably the closest thing to an apology I’m ever going to get concerning the events
that occurred on Friday night. I know he was just doing his job, so if I hold it against him, I’m the wuss in this situation.

  Hearing his voice brings me out of the trance I’ve been lulled into by the guitar riffs I created from a song I crafted during The Savages’ heyday. No one in the room knows that I was Savage Saban, and I like it that way. Fame steals the relative anonymity that most people enjoy. I’m definitely not ready to go back to being recognized everywhere I go. Given my new transformation, it’s not likely the average person would even know who I am amongst this group anyway. The rock star of the past was leaner, meaner—and wouldn’t have been caught dead in the monkey suit I’m wearing tonight. Who has time for grooming when you’re chasing the dragon?

  I open my eyes and become mesmerized by the writhing bodies on the dance floor. They are jamming to my favorite creation “An Analogy for Reality.” It’s a heady aphrodisiac, and I love seeing others enjoy my music again, but still I refuse to let it all pull me back in.

  Malik’s brow is wrinkled as if he’s trying to figure me out. “You okay?” he asks.

  I respond to him with a shrug. “Yeah, never better. Why?” The truth would only invite a conversation—one that I’m not ready to have yet with anyone other than my shrink and maybe my former bandmates.

  My remaining bandmates have scattered and recording for other groups, yet each one swears they would return if I ever revived The Savages—all I need to do is say the word.

  Honestly, just being around Skylar and her crew for the past week has been a constant reminder that your life can spiral quickly out-of-control if you don’t keep your feet firmly planted in reality. I like reality.

  “Did you just zone out on me there for a minute?” Malik asks. He looks concerned believe it or not.

  I brush it off and drain the beer I’ve been holding for a while. It’s now warm. This is how I get through this type of party. I grab a beer or glass of wine, mostly as a prop, and don’t partake of anything else. Actually, drinking the entire libation is crossing the line for me. Relapse is an ever-present possibility.