Rocked by love, p.1
Rocked by Love, page 1
ROCKED BY LOVE
ELLA GOODE
CONTENTS
Summary
Chapter 1
Dylan
Chapter 2
Clover
Chapter 3
Dylan
Chapter 4
Clover
Chapter 5
Dylan
Chapter 6
Clover
Chapter 7
Dylan
Chapter 8
Clover
Chapter 9
Dylan
Chapter 10
Clover
Chapter 11
Dylan
Chapter 12
Clover
Chapter 13
Dylan
Chapter 14
Clover
Chapter 15
Dylan
Chapter 16
Clover
Chapter 17
Dylan
Chapter 18
Clover
Chapter 19
Dylan
Chapter 20
Clover
Chapter 21
Dylan
Chapter 22
Clover
Epilogue
Also by Ella Goode
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Every night I get on stage and fifty thousand fans dance to my tunes, ,sing my lyrics, and scream my name. If I go to a restaurant or a club or even store, someone knows me. And it’s that level of fame that drove me out into the desert after a sold out stadium show in Las Vegas. In the middle of nowhere I found a true oasis in Clover. She’s not used to a fast life with bright lights but I can’t go back to that world without her.
A man with no name, no job, no car isn’t on top of my list of eligibles. I have a bar to run and friends to feed. I don’t have time for this hot stranger who looks like he wants to eat me alive. He’s got too many secrets and I’m a girl who likes open books. Unfortunately, I can’t stop my heart from yearning for him. My steady foundation here feels like it’s been rocked by love but I don’t know if that’s enough.
CHAPTER 1
DYLAN
“Thank you, Las Vegas! I love you!” I pull out my earpiece and let the sounds of the crowd fill my head. The cheers are loud enough to raise the roof. The best part of every concert is this moment when I’ve sung every note, played every chord, and have left it all on the stage, and in return the stadium attendees scream out their love. It’s mutual, though. Fucking fans are the best. I could stay here for hours, but my body won’t take it. Blood pumping, mind buzzing, I let the lift carry me down under the stage. At the bottom, I collapse into a waiting chair. The cheers kept me upright for two hours, and now that the concert is over, I’m drained.
My assistant, Cloudy, shoves a mug into my hand. “It’s honey water.”
“Thanks,” I croak. My vocal chords are on fumes. I stretch my legs out, lean my head back and listen to the dying chants. When the crowd doesn’t want to leave, I always have the urge to go up and do one more encore. But my voice is shot, so I remain seated.
A couple hands start patting small towels against my face and neck. I close my eyes and let the styling team dry off my sweat, brush the tangles out of my hair, and remove the heavy silver rings and necklaces. Someone unbuttons my shirt, and someone else directs a fan toward me. Feeling somewhat human, I push to my feet.
“Ready?” The intrusive voice of my manager arrives.
“No.”
“It’s only a few photographs, and the person is doing the article for GQ.”
I swallow a sigh. The best part of being a rock star is performing. The worst part is all the other shit. “I don’t feel like it.”
“But you’ll do it.” Chris is confident, and to be honest, in the five years he’s managed my career, I’ve never given him much reason not to be. I do my interviews, show up for my performances, refrain from drugs, and earn him a shit ton of money. In exchange, he makes sure that the day-to-day bull is kept to a very bare minimum.
But there are moments where I miss playing gigs in small college towns in seedy bars that didn’t hold more than a busload of people. The floors were sticky and the acoustics were crap, and the crowd was often drunk, but there was no pressure and no expectations and no rich people angling for a photo op or interviewers trying to dig up the skeletons in your past. You played your music, and if they liked you, you got invited back. I was invited back a lot.
Another set of hands appear to wash off my chest.
“I’ll talk to the reporter, but not do the photos.”
“It’s for the promoter’s sister. He promised her. It’s her birthday.”
As if I haven’t heard that before. “When?”
“When what?”
“When’s her birthday? Today? Or seven weeks from now?” Everyone claims it’s a special occasion.
Chris pauses because he never asked.
“Falling down on the job?”
The hand that wipes down my chest is almost a little too friendly, lingering a little too long over the ridges of my abs. I glance down to see an unfamiliar face. “Enjoying yourself a little?” I ask, irritated.
The woman flushes and is immediately pulled away. Cloudy hurries over. “Sorry about that. Daniel got sick in the middle of the concert, and we pulled someone up from the costume pool. It won’t happen again.”
“I’m sure that it won’t.” I don’t need to have random girls groping me backstage.
Cloudy gives me a terse, apologetic nod and then hands me a fresh T-shirt, which I shrug on.
“Lead the way,” I tell Chris. “This is the third time the reporter has been here. Any reason why?” Usually reporters only get one, maybe two hours, at a restaurant, and sometimes they don’t even rate a restaurant.
“She said she just had some follow-up questions, and it’s Grammy season.”
“Email doesn’t exist?”
“I told her five minutes, and she did fly all the way here from New York.”
“I hate Grammy season.”
“We all do.” He claps me on the shoulder.
The promoter's sister turns out to be the promoter’s sister, the sister’s family, her best friend, the best friend’s family, and some random neighbor. In total, there are about fourteen people in my green room. The moment I step inside, shit is shoved in my face. Everybody wants an autograph. I clench my teeth and start signing. “How much does this go for on eBay these days?” I ask one of the kids, who clearly is not a fan of mine.
He laughs uncomfortably. “No idea.”
“I wish you would’ve sung ‘No One’s Business.’ That’s my favorite,” someone chirps from the corner.
“Trying to do some of my new music,” I reply.
“When’s your next album coming out?” someone else asks.
“The current one is only three months old.” Do they think churning out music is the same as a fashion line refresh at Shein?
I spot the reporter hovering in the background. I need to get this dog and pony show over. “Ask your questions,” I order.
I guess she doesn’t like the tone of my voice because the question that zips out silences the whole room. “There’s a rumor that you have a throat problem that is exacerbated by your smoking. Are you trying to ruin your voice, or is it a cover for a deeper addiction?”
Chris moves toward her, but I motion for him to stop. “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m here.”
“Throat sounded good for two hours out there. You be the judge.”
She asks a few other questions, which I dodge. The photographs that were only supposed to take a second last fifteen minutes. I give up smiling after the third one. There’s gonna be some rumor about me being an asshole to fans, but at this point, I don’t even care.
Chris sees my patience fray and shoves everyone out at the point that I’m about to snap. When he returns, I pin a pair of angry eyes on his craggy face. “I’m not doing any more of the shit for the rest of the tour. I see one VIP back here again, and you’re going to have to sell my autographed merch online to make money.”
“Fine. Fine. Do you want a car to take you back to the hotel, or do you want me to have the chef make you some dinner? Traffic is bad out there, and there’s a ton of fans waiting for you outside the tunnel.”
“You know what I want? I want a normal night. I want to go to a pub, have a drink, listen to some live music. I don’t want anyone asking me for an autograph, criticizing my songs, ask whether I’m drinking too much or smoking too much, or when my next album is out. I want none of that.” I slash my hand down.
“Do you want me to get the makeup artist in here and have them do a disguise, like old man makeup and a wig?”
“No. Those itch like hell.”
“This is a bad idea.”
“I don’t give a shit. I am tired of being cooped up in my hotel room. I haven’t seen real people for weeks. I need to get out of here before I lose my mind.”
“The fifty thousand fans you had at the concert aren’t even all out of the stadium at this point. There’s no place around here where you could go where there aren’t fans.”
“I won’t go anywhere near here.”
We stare at each other until Chris gives in. “Let me make some phone calls, and I’ll arrange something.”
I can only imagine Chris’ plan. It’s going to be some ritzy place where they serve whiskey that costs $2000 a bottle. All the men will be old cigar smokers, and the women
He smiles brightly and gives me the thumbs-up before dialing someone.
“I’m going to the john.” About twenty feet from my door, I spot a sanitation worker with a vest striped with reflective tape, gloves, and a hat. When I reach him, I pull out my wallet. “A hundred bucks for your gear.”
The man gives me a long once-over, and I can see in his eyes, recognition. I thumb out a few more bills.
He doesn’t take it. “You trying to escape, son?”
“Trying is the operative word. Can you at least give me a head start?”
He pulls off his vest. “Gotta keep the gloves, but you can have this and the hat. Keep your money.”
“Absolutely not. What you’re giving me is priceless. Use this to get your woman a nice purse or dinner or buy your daughter something she’s always dreamed of.” I pull out an even bigger wad of cash and shove it in his back pocket.
I hear my name yelled.
“Better skedaddle,” the worker instructs.
I don the vest and cap and start walking. A couple security guards rush past me, but the vest makes me invisible to them. I adjust my cap and head out into the night. My fatigue fades away, and my steps are lighter. I’m gonna have some freedom tonight. I’m going to find a place where no one knows me. I’m going to drink cheap beer, listen to real people talk, and forget, for even just a couple hours, that I’m Dylan Sign, the biggest rock star in the world.
CHAPTER 2
CLOVER
I scream as beer sprays everywhere in the keg room. “James!” I shout, shoving him out of the way. Okay, maybe it’s not so much of a shove. He moves on his own accord when I shoulder him out of the way. I’m only a few inches over five foot, so it’s not like I’m pushing anyone around.
Besides, no one can shove James. He's built like a damn tank, and that’s part of the problem. When one of my taps ran out, he said he’d go change the keg out for me. I was in the middle of making a round of drinks and shots. I guess he missed me shaking my head no. I had planned on changing the tank myself once I finished up that round of drinks. But when I went in the back, I found James trying to do it himself.
The man really has no idea how strong he is. It’s why I can’t ever let him behind the bar. He breaks glasses and bottles so easily. Either with his hands or by slamming them down too hard. He’s the bouncer or security. It’s what I hired him to do eight months ago after I lost my father suddenly. This was originally my dad’s bar. Once he passed, I inherited it. I grew up in this place, but I knew I needed some muscle because it can get rough at times. It’s a dive bar. My dad was good at keeping people in line. Me, not so much. It’s hard to get in someone's face when you’re my size.
I fix the keg, stopping the spray. “Sorry.” James drops his head. He’s a giant-ass teddy bear of a man I can’t stay mad at. He doesn’t mean any harm. He just underestimates his size and strength sometimes.
“It’s fine.” I’m going to have to run the line to clear out all the heads, but it is what it is. If I’ve learned anything since losing my dad, it’s that life happens. You can’t control everything. You can either cry about it or you can roll with it. No matter what, life goes on. What’s done is done.
“I’ll clean this up. You should ah, change.” James looks anywhere but at me. I glance down to see my white T-shirt with the bar's green logo Get Lucky is soaked.
“Shit.” I pull my shirt away from my body so my nipples aren’t on full display. I have a bra on but a thin one. “I’ll be back.” I rush out the back to go find a change of clothes.
I have to cut back through the bar to get to the other side where there is a small office and kitchen that makes a handful of food items. It’s nothing fancy, but my apartment with fresh clothes is above the bar. We aren’t packed tonight, so I make a straight cut toward the back door. Suddenly the bathroom door swings open, and a man steps out. I’m not fast enough to stop myself from colliding with him.
“Sorry!” I squeak when I run into him. I brace myself, knowing I’m going to fall backwards because whoever I just ran into is like a freaking wall. I would have guessed it to be James, but he’s still in the keg room.
“Fuck,” the man grunts. He grabs my shoulders, pulling me back into him, stopping me from falling backwards.
“Sorry, sorry,” I repeat. My dad named me Clover because he said I was lucky. I’m starting to think he took all my luck with him.
“How about you just watch where you’re going?” the deep voice says. I have to drop my head all the way back to stare up into brown honey-colored eyes. I’ve never seen anything like them in my life. Our eyes stay locked for a long moment. It’s not only his eyes that are stunning but the man himself is gorgeous. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone more handsome. He probably thinks I ran into him on purpose.
“I said I was sorry. Your first drink is on me. Or did you already have one? If so, I’ll cover the next.” I try to step back, but he doesn’t let me go.
“You’re wet.” Heat rushes my face. My mind goes where it shouldn’t because that is so not what he means. “Did I miss the wet T-shirt contest or something?” I scrunch my nose.
“We don’t do that here. The bar might be called Get Lucky, but if you really want to get lucky you should check out Shady Lady. It’s three miles that way.” I point my thumb behind me in the direction of the strip club.
“It was a joke.” Now he’s the one who seems flustered. “I came here for a beer.”
“The hell!” I hear James shout from behind me.
“Let go.” I wiggle backwards. The man actually does as I ask. “James, I’m fine. I ran into him.” I glance over my shoulder at James, who is glaring at the man. The word Security written in bold white letters on his black shirt makes it clear who he is.
“I don’t push myself on women.” The handsome man holds his hands up.
No, I don’t think he’d have to. His eyes drop, and I suddenly remember where I was going and why.
“I’ll be back. I’m changing. He gets a free beer,” I tell James before I make my way around the gorgeous man. He grabs my hand before I can make my escape.
“What’s your name?” His voice comes out rougher now. I don’t know if it's that or his touch, but my whole body comes alive with a strange tingle across my skin.
“Clover. I own the place.” I give him a smile. I’ve somehow kept this place going, and I’m kind of proud of that. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to do it, but I have so far.
“Clover.” He repeats my name in a husky tone.
“And yours?” His brows lift at my question.
“My name?” he asks as though no one has ever asked him that before.
“Well, yeah.” I laugh.
“Dylan.”
“Well, Dylan, welcome to Get Lucky.”
“How do you know I’ve never been here before?” he asks, still holding on to my hand.
“’Cause I know everyone here.” And I would so remember him if I’d seen him before. A lot of people are regulars or old timers. We get some new faces here and there.
“Do you now?” A smile plays on his lips. Am I missing something?
“Yeah, I do.” I pull my hand from his. “I’ll be back.”
“Promise?”
“Like I said, I own the place. I’m not going anywhere,” I tell him before I turn to head toward the back. Is he flirting with me? It takes everything inside of me not to glance over my shoulder to see if he’s watching me walk away.
I don’t date customers or do one-night stands.
I never get lucky around here. Or anywhere, for that matter.
CHAPTER 3
DYLAN
She doesn’t recognize me. There wasn’t a flicker of recognition in her beautiful blue eyes. I practically skip to the bar. The security guard follows me and ducks under an open part of the bar.
