Bad Boy Rock Star

Bad Boy Rock Star

by

Candy J. Starr

Copyright Candy J. Starr 2013

All rights reserved

I’d like to thank Anita O’Halloran for her feedback and editing.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is purely coincidental.

He kissed me and he changed my world forever, although
I never would have dreamt it at the time. It was just a kiss, not even a particularly passionate kiss at that. But, in all my 22 years, I'd never been kissed so annoyingly, so teasingly, so spine-tinglingly arrogantly.

I hated Jack Colt.

He'd grabbed me and pressed his lips against mine as if to say, "I could give you so very much more but I
choose
not to". Like, if he wanted, he could unleash a power that would annihilate my world and sweep away everything that had gone before him. The force of him could wrap my heart, squeeze it tight and draw out every desire, even the ones I kept hidden from myself.

He was an unstoppable force.

I tried to ignore the sparks tingling my skin where he touched me. His hand on the back of my neck, his fingers tangled in my hair. Bolts of pure electricity ran through me, making my toes curl and my back arch. My hands struggled at my sides, wanting to feel his skin and pull his face closer to mine. I splayed my fingers to control myself.

Even that wasn’t enough.  My lips moved with his and my body leaned against
him.  I don’t know why.  I didn’t want him kissing me.  I didn’t want his flesh against mine.

I could've pulled away.
Could've. Should've. But I didn't.

The
soft leather of his thigh pressed between my legs and I pressed back without thinking. I was drowning and I wasn't sure if I liked it but I wanted more.

Then he stopped.

I pushed him away, willing my knees not to buckle and my legs not to shake.
I was in control. I'm always in control. I'm the girl that everyone wants to make happy. I'm the girl that guys fall in love with at first sight then follow around, making complete idiots of themselves in the hopes that maybe, for a brief instant, I'd notice they existed. I definitely don’t lose control of myself because some thug forces his lips on mine.

But he'd not even given me a chance
to say no.

I wanted to slap his face for daring to pounce on me like that but I also needed to keep my cool.
I took a deep breath to calm myself and brushed myself down, brushing every bit of him off me. I could handle this situation.

Then I gave him my best bitch look.

Jack Colt, the kind of man I most despise. That slow, lazy arrogance, the black hair tumbling down into his deep brown eyes. Eyes that mocked me with a look that said he could take what he wanted from me any time. The sleazy five o’clock shadow.

He wasn’t even that good
looking; he just reeked of animal masculinity with an energy he could barely contain. It burst out of him like the biceps bursting out of his t-shirt sleeves and the muscles straining out of the tight leather pants and the… I wasn’t even going to look at that.

People like me don’t even acknowledge the existence of people like him. 
He was the kind of people that wash my Mercedes or work in the garden.  Not the kind of person who thrusts their tongue between my carefully painted lips.

"Like that, princess
?" He spat out the word princess like it was an insult but I'd always been a princess. I took it as a compliment.

"I-I-I
..."

Why couldn't I string a basic sentence together? What happened to my carefully prepared speech?
I had to be tougher than anyone, that's what my dad said. You can be a princess but you have to be tough.

"You can buy CDs out the front if
you want one signed."

He nodded at the table set up in the other room then
grabbed the green-haired girl beside me. The girl I’d known for all of two minutes and already hated. Now his lips locked onto hers while she balanced on tip-top in those platform boots to reach him.

What the hell was this guy thinking? Why would I want his autograph?
Heat rose through my face as it dawned on me what he'd meant. He thought I was some desperado groupie looking for a cheap grope like the rest of these skanks waiting in line. I'd make him regret that mistake. I'd come here on business, business I needed to discuss right now. I most definitely wasn't here for him to play stupid kissing games with his lips of death.

I’d arrived at the bar
about a half hour earlier expecting there to some kind of office or room where we could speak in private.

"
The band room’s at the back," the girl on the door had said. "But you still have to pay the cover charge if you aren’t on the list."

How could I be on a list?
If I’d known any other way to contact the band, I wouldn’t have come here at all.  This place reeked of stale beer and cheap cologne.

I pushed my through the mass of people
, most of them sweaty and gross and drunk enough to be annoying.

A horrible grating sound came from the stage and I assumed that was them.
Storm. No matter. I didn’t have to like their music. The man at the front, Jack Colt, strutted around the stage like some kind of fancy man and the way he touched that guitar, it bordered on obscene. How could these people watch that? It was like looking through someone’s bedroom window and catching them in an act of disturbing intimacy.

And how did carpet get so sticky and gross?
Didn’t these people ever clean? As I noticed a guy stumble from the bar trying to balance four beers in his hands, that question was answered.

He tottered near me and split some of it on my shoes.
My very fabulous, very expensive shoes.

"
What the hell do you think you are doing?" I yelled at him but my voice got lost in the screech of guitar from onstage and the idiot merged back into the crowd.

Someone shoved me in the back and cold liquid touched my skin.
Then someone trod on my foot and didn’t even apologise. I tried to push through the crowd but most of them just pushed me back.  Elbows pierced my side, whole bodies slammed into me.

And seriously, could they turn the music down a bit?
The world must be full of deaf people if they listened to music like this. I’d been to concerts before but they were nothing like this.  This was a hundred or so people packed into a tiny room that pretty much resembled hell.

I could see the doorway leading to the
back of the stage.  I kept my eyes on it and tried to move in that direction.

Another foot thumped onto mine so I thumped back making good use of
my stiletto heels.

Then, without any apparent reason apart from some herd mentality, they all surged forward, trying to squeeze into the already crowded space.  A can flew out of nowhere and bashed me on the head.  It stung like hell and might have even cut me.

I wanted to flee from this room to a place where sweat and beer didn’t exist but I needed to talk to that man.

As the crowd surged further forward, I slipped around the back of them.

I finally got to the band room, well, the space outside the band room, sort of at the back of the stage. An area full of black cases and boxes with "Marshall" written on them. Who was Marshall and why did he get personalized boxes?  To the right, large doors lead outside.  To the other, a graffiti covered door that I assumed was the band room.

I tried to get to the back room to
wait for the band to come off stage but a huge guy with his arms folded and a "don't mess with me" look on his face blocked my way. He stood in front of the door as though guarding something valuable.

"I'm here to talk to the band."
I put on my best bitchface and squared up to him but it just ricocheted right off him.

"
Are you on the list?"

"
Look at me. Do I look like I’m not important?"

He glanced over my outfit
then grunted.

"
Hard to know. Chicks do all kinds of shit to get in the back room."

"
Well I don’t. I have a meeting. A business meeting."

"
Maybe you do but I wasn’t told about it. Wait over there with the rest of ‘em." He nodded his head at a group of five girls.

"But you don't understand…"

"Either wait there or get out!"

That didn't give me a lot of choice.
Then a woman in leather pants and long black hair breezed past the bouncer.

"How come she's allowed
–"

The big guy snarled and pointed at the exit.
He'd be sorry when he found out who I was. Then he'd apologise because I had more right to access that room than any chick in leather pants. I held my Vuitton bag tight by side and hoped none of these drunken people had bad intentions and huddled as close to the door as I could.

One girl said hello but I ignored her.
I could barely hear her over that insane noise on stage anyway.

Then the band went quiet and the crowd screamed.
I smoothed down my skirt, getting ready to corner them as they came offstage. That's when the green-haired girl sprang out from nowhere. She stopped abruptly when she saw me, giving my outfit the up and down, then sniggered.

A guy with his head shaved pushed through the girls, the bouncer holding the door open for him.

"Hey, Spud," one of the girls called.

He raised his eyebrows in response.

"Jack'll be here soon," he said.

The girl made a weird whimper.

"If you bitches really cared, you'd have been out front watching the band instead of hanging around here," the
green-haired girl snorted.

Then she turned to me.
Her gaze started at my feet and worked its way up in silent judgment. I could play that game too. In fact, when it came to
that
game, I could win Olympic gold.

My shoes
were designer high heels probably ruined from this disgusting carpet, hers were huge platform boots covered with straps and buckles like some kind of strait-jacket for your feet.

S
ilk stockings caressed my long, shapely legs. The flesh of her stumpy legs squeezed out through the rips in her fishnet stockings.

My skirt had been a pivotal part of this season’s fashion collections.
Her skirt was some red, plaid thing that screamed second-hand.

Her
t-shirt barely contained her ample flesh. Me – elegance and sophistication with a touch of cheeky fun.

She dangled some kind of
red, furry backpack from her arm. My bag had featured in this month’s
Vogue
, although the designer had offered it to me months ago. Part of the VIP service.

She had a turned
-up nose covered in freckles. I had the best nose money could buy.

Her eyes were
ringed in black eyeliner, making her look like a panda. My nude makeup extenuated my sapphire blue eyes. The eye colour, real, the lashes not so much.

And you could hardly compare the green, scruffy mop on her head with my perfect blonde curls.

Game, set and match to me. But she didn’t seem at all phased. She scrunched up her face in disgust.

"
Are you lost?" she asked. "This isn’t the Royal Opera, you know."

And that’s when he
kissed me.

Then
he moved onto her.

She balanced
against me as her hands ran up his chest, her back leaning against my side. Did she think I just existed for her convenience? That cheap perfume she wore would never come out of my top.

I moved
away and she stumbled slightly but her lips stayed locked on his. So I grabbed his arm and pulled them apart.

"Now listen here
–"

"No, you listen.
You've had your moment now move along. I hate pushy groupies." He ran his fingers through his hair and glared at me.

"I'm not a groupie.
I'm your manager!" I put my hands on my hips and glared right back.

I may have actually stamped my foot here but he deserved it.
He totally deserved to have my foot stamped at him. With that look of pure arrogant irritation he'd shot at me, he deserved more than foot stamping. He deserved a well-timed punch in the stomach – and I'd be just the woman to give it to him if I didn't think it'd ruin my manicure.

A guy carrying a drum squeezed past me, pressing me further against the wall.
I sighed and waited for him to pass so I could finish what I had to say.  The green-haired chick looked daggers at me for interrupting her but seriously I'd done her a favour. She would thank me in years to come when she wised up.

Jack Colt ran his eyes over my designer outfit and high heels that looked so out of place in this dingy bar.
His long eyelashes flickered as his eyes filled with a look of thinly-veiled amusement.

"You're no manager, babe.
Buy your shit and then get back to Rich Town and tell your friends all about your night slumming with the poor people."