Rock Chick 06 Reckoning

Rock Chick Reckoning

Kristen Ashley

Published by Kristen Ashley

Copyright 2011 Kristen Ashley

Discover other titles by Kristen Ashley:

Rock Chick Series:

Rock Chick

Rock Chick Rescue

Rock Chick Redemption

Rock Chick Renegade

Rock Chick Revenge

The ‘Burg Series:

For You

At Peace

Golden Trail

The Colorado Mountain Series:

The Gamble

Sweet Dreams

Lady Luck

Dream Man Series:

Mystery Man

Wild Man

The Fairytale Series:

Wildest Dreams

The Golden Dynasty

Fantastical

Other Titles by Kristen Ashley:

Lacybourne Manor

Mathilda, SuperWitch

Penmort Castle

Sommersgate House

Three Wishes

www.kristenashley.net

Kindle Edition, License Notes

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 person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

*****

This book is dedicated to Rick Chew and Jim Gonzalez I love you. I miss you.

I wish you were stil right next door.

Yahtzee!

Acknowledgement

A shout out to my Sir Wil , Wil iam Womack, my uncle, my friend and the premier Rock Guru. Stel a’s set lists would be nowhere near as cool if Wil didn’t feed the burn in my soul for kickass music. Love you, Wil .

Author’s Note

I would guess my readers understand, considering you’re reading a series entitled
Rock Chick
, that music means a great deal to me. Frequently in my writing I wil use music to explain feelings, define characters or add emotion to the narrative. And if I had a wish, I would wish to be able to make music one way or another but, alas, I do not play an instrument (though have tried to learn) and my singing leaves something to be desired.

So it was a thril for Stel a Gunn to inhabit my headspace and, through Stel a, to be able to play a guitar, sing super sexy, entrance a crowd, give a one woman private concert to a hot guy and write set lists.

Stel a chose her music with great care. Therefore, if you haven’t before or have only done it in passing, I encourage you to experience ful y the music Stel a chose to explain her emotions by looking up the lyrics and listening to the songs mentioned in this book. Indeed, if you can, listening to the songs while reading the scenes may enhance the experience (it does for me). Most specifical y Pearl Jam’s

“Black”, Bil y Joel’s “And So It Goes”, Journey’s “Open Arms” and Blink-182’s “Al the Smal Things”
.
They’re al fantastic songs but the lyrics expose Stel a’s soul.

Unfortunately, without permission from the artists, I cannot include the lyrics in the narrative and being a self-published author without a great deal of resources, I’m not in a place where I could request that permission (alas).

Further, if you wish to know how Stel a sounded singing in my head, find the Cowboy Junkies’ version of “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry” and Sarah McLachlan’s version of

“Blackbird” from the
I Am Sam
soundtrack.

Or don’t and experience her just how she is in your head.

Enjoy listening
and
reading.

And always remember to
rock on!

*****

Stella

The phone rang.

My eyes opened and I looked at the clock.

Three thirty-seven.

In the morning.

I reached for the phone and said, “Hel o?” I sounded awake and alert. This was because it wasn’t unusual for me to be up at an ungodly hour in the morning.

Not only did I have loads of practice taking frantic phone cal s in the hours before dawn but also I was lead singer and guitarist of a rock band. Most of the time, I was just stumbling through the door after a gig at an ungodly hour in the morning.

“Stel a?” It was Buzz, my bass player. He sounded messed up. On the phone at an ungodly hour in the morning he always sounded messed up.

“Hey Buzz, what’s up?” I asked.

His answer could be anything. He needed me to bail him out of jail. He needed me to give him a ride home because he was somewhere, drunk out of his skul and thankful y responsible enough to cal someone, unthankful y, that someone was always me. He was stuck on a bil board on 8th promoting Earth, Wind and Fire’s upcoming concert with no way to get down (don’t ask).

But I was guessing it had to do with Lindsey.

“It’s Linnie,” Buzz said.

I was right.

“Buzz, I don’t –”

“She’s in bed, she ain’t movin’. Something’s weird. It just ain’t right. I’m scared to even touch her. Stel a Bel a, fuck…” he whispered. “I think she overdosed.”

I shot upright in my huge, super king-sized bed and my Saint Bernard, Juno, who was lying ful out (thus explaining my need for a huge, super king-sized bed), sat up too and gave a woof.

“Have you cal ed 911?” I asked Buzz.

“No, I cal ed you.”

Yep, that’s about right. Of course he’d cal me. I was Stel a Michel e Gunn, lead singer and lead guitarist of the Blue Moon Gypsies. I posted bond (mostly for Pong, my drummer, but for al of them on occasion). I soothed drunken angry men (again predominately Pong but they al were good at getting drunk
and
angry). I counseled relationships on the brink of col apse (this was not my strong suit for your information, the parties concerned always broke up). I listened when the world just
did not
understand (and the world didn’t understand much according to Leo, who played rhythm guitar and regularly got stoned and reflective). I extricated not-so-horny-anymore saxophonists named Hugo from mini-orgies with gonzo groupies gone bad.

And apparently I was an emergency paramedic.

“Cal 911,” I ordered

“But –”

“
Now!
” I snapped.

I hung up and swung out of bed. Juno woofed again and lumbered out of bed behind me.

My first thought was Mace.

In these situations, and there were a lot of them, although not always involving overdosed junkies who used to be sweet girls that were now addicted to smack, my first thought was always Kai “Mace” Mason, the tal est, hottest, coolest, most amazing guy I’d ever met. Mace with the jade green eyes. Mace with the thick, dark hair. Mace with the fantastic bod. Mace with the strong, masculine, long-fingered hands that could run so light across your skin you could almost hear them whisper.

Mace would know what to do. Mace would take care of Buzz and Lindsey at the same time shielding me and Juno.

“Sleep,” Mace’s ultra-deep voice would say in my ear after hanging up the phone (which he
always
answered) and kissing my shoulder or my neck or the spot behind my ear, his lips making me tremble. “I’l take care of it.” Then he’d go and take care of it and I would sleep.

But Mace was gone. He’d broken up with me a year before.

Now it was just me. As always.

My second thought was to shove thoughts of Mace aside.

My third thought was to find my jeans.

I yanked off my nightgown and tugged on a pair of old Levi’s and my bra. I grabbed a capped-sleeved white blouse with red stitching at the top and dangling tassels that you would expect a girl named Heidi to wear while yodeling in the mountains of Germany.

Just for your information, I loved that effing top.

Also, for your information, I had no idea how to yodel and didn’t want to know how.

I sat on the bed and pul ed on my brown cowboy boots, dusty not from riding the range but from standing on dirty stages in dark bars.

Then I grabbed my keys, shoved my cel phone in my back pocket and snatched Juno’s leash off a hook by the door.

“Let’s go, Juno,” I cal ed, slapping my hand against my thigh.

Juno thumped over to me, not with great excitement, wagging tail and lol ing tongue, ready for adventure. Instead Juno was resigned to her fate which consisted of yet another interruption to her beauty sleep of which she needed a lot.

“Buzz thinks Linnie’s overdosed. Probably just passed out,” I told Juno as we headed out of my room and into the hal . “We’l be back home soon.”

* * * * *

By the time I got there so had the ambulance and the police. Lights flashing, the front yard of Lindsey’s broken down house not just holding straggling tufts of grass, weeds and patches of dirt but also uniformed police officers and pajama’ed neighbors.

Worse, parked on a street was a shiny black Ford Explorer.

I knew what that meant.

One of the Nightingale Boys was there.

“What the ef?” I whispered, a chil sliding over my skin (for several reasons). I parked in front of the squad car that was parked in front of the Explorer.

The Nightingale Boys were famous in certain circles of Denver – the circles occupied by cops, felons and others in need of their unique services. They were on the Nightingale Private Investigations Team, al of them highly qualified, intensely skil ed, moral y dubious but total y super cool.

Mace was one of them.

I clipped the leash on Juno and swung out my door, Juno fol owing me on a huge, big dog sigh.

Please don’t let Mace be here, please don’t let Mace
be here,
my brain chanted.

Then I switched topics.

Please let Linnie be okay, please let Linnie be okay.

I rounded the back of my van, the door to Lindsey’s house opened and Luke Stark, Hot Guy and Nightingale Man, walked out. Black, super short hair, kil er, trimmed mustache that ran down the sides of his mouth, mouth-watering handsome and body designed by the gods.

I knew Luke; I’d met him when I dated Mace. I knew him now because he was living with my friend, Ava Barlow.

His eyes scanned the yard and stal ed on me.

Okay, cool. No worries. Al was wel . I could deal with Luke. Luke was good. Luke was great.

I smiled at Luke.

The door opened again and Mace walked out.

Fuck!
My brain shouted and my smile vanished.

My eyes did a sweep of al that was Mace.

I wanted to find fault in him, I real y did. I wanted him to be growing a paunch. I wanted him to be developing a bald spot. I wanted him to look like he was wasting away, pining for me. Something, anything but what he was. Tal at six foot four, flat, tight abs, square jaw and last but not least, arresting green eyes and great skin that showed the Hawaiian ancestry that he got from his Mom’s side.

He didn’t scan the yard. His eyes came direct to me like he sensed me there.

When his eyes caught my eyes I worked hard to keep my face blank.

Mace didn’t appear to have to work hard at al . His expression didn’t change. Not in the slightest.

I felt it like I always felt it when I remembered him, when I remembered us or when, on the odd occasion, I’d see him

– that sharp kick in the gut and the sharper desire to flee.