Chasing Alys: A Rock Star Romance (EBook)

✔️ A Cinnamon Roll. British Rock Star
✔️ A Love Resistant, Jaded Heroine
✔️ He Falls First
✔️ A Ride-Or-Die Best Friend
✔️ And a hard-won one-night stand that doesn’t end there.

Music blared from every direction, deafening the eclectic mix of people crammed into the dark, modest bar. Most ignored the band prancing around the small stage, choosing to shout at their neighbour between winces instead. Some crowded the bar itself, while others stood in groups on the dance floor before the stage. Almost all of them wore black band t-shirts and jeans. I’d missed the memo on the t-shirts, but then, I didn’t own any. My green blouse would have to do.
Other women were going against the uniform who stuck out worse than me. A dark dive bar didn’t seem like the place for short dresses, stilettos or faces caked with make-up, but then, it wasn’t my scene, so what did I know? 
As far as I was concerned, heels would just stick to the dirty rubber floor. The air was so stagnant and hot that sweat dripped down the walls. My face already felt like it was melting, and I wore only a thin layer of foundation. I hated to think about the time these girls had wasted perfecting their eyeliner and the curve of their lashes. It would all end up being nothing more than a black streak down their cheeks in a couple of hours. 
I pressed my spine into the pillar between the bar and the stairs leading down to the entrance. Then I remembered the sweat coating the walls and shot away before it could seep into my blouse. It was the perfect vantage spot. Emily wouldn’t be able to miss me when she finally turned up.
After scanning the growing crowd for what felt like the hundredth time, I took a deep glug of wine and grimaced, fighting an instant need to spit it out. Served in a plastic pint glass, I’d naively thought it couldn’t get worse. But the burn in my throat begged to differ. That’s what I get for drinking wine from a bar that smells like stale beer.
Had the music been better, this gig might have turned the tide on my distaste for live music. There was a crowd, but it wasn’t claustrophobic. I still wouldn’t be able to have a conversation without losing my voice the next day, but at least I didn’t feel like there was no escape.
Thirty minutes passed. My feet stuck to the floor, my ears felt like they were bleeding, my taste buds were a thing of the past, and Emily was nowhere to be seen. I couldn’t even get drunk to drown out the screams of the man on stage who had forgotten how to produce words.
Foot tapping against the disgusting floor, I glared at the gaunt figure holding the microphone. He needed a haircut and an introduction to running water. Long black strands stuck to his thin body – when had he lost his shirt? – and it had nothing to do with sweat. That shine seemed far too pronounced.
Reverb squawked through the small space, and I winced in tandem with the rest of the crowd. Why had I given in to Emily so quickly yesterday? I should have argued, resisted for at least an hour.
I lived with Emily and when production was in full swing, we didn’t see each other much. A production coordinator’s day started far earlier than a school counsellor’s, and it ended much later. That meant we only caught sight of each other when I had a down day, which was few and far between. If my day off didn’t fall on a weekend, the most we managed was sharing a meal. Yet despite being like passing ships most days, we could still read each other with very little effort.
I don’t know how I’d survived without my wayward best friend for the first eleven years of my life. Her attaching herself to me had been the best thing to happen, and not only because she ran off a bully with the whack of a textbook. She’d made life more exciting in our tiny village. Of the two of us, she was the daring one. She’d climb forty-foot trees on the regular, getting stuck almost every time. People would tell her she wasn’t allowed to do something, and she’d defy them all.
Back then, I’d wished she’d approach love with the same daredevil outlook. I’d thought she was missing out. Now I knew better.
My eyes strayed to the entrance yet again – and snagged on an oddly familiar blond-haired man. He stood on the opposite side of the room, staring at me whilst surrounded by a group of men. All four of them were varying degrees of hot, and together they packed an effective punch. Around them, men outright gawked and women tried to catch their eyes.
Not a single one of their watchers approached, though. Nothing but empty space surrounded them, and except for Blondie, they seemed oblivious, laughing and joking with each other. The four of them were chiselled, over six feet tall, and gave off an air of unaffected calm in the face of so much attention. I could understand why they pulled focus; they were the epitome of cool and confident.
Despite their competing good looks, my gaze kept coming back to the blond-haired one. His friends chattered around him, but he was silent, oblivious to them. His expression was oddly restrained as he stared at me across the smoky room. His face tickled my memories, but I couldn’t pinpoint why he seemed familiar. His hair fell to his shoulders in effortless waves that would make any woman envious.
Then his eyes snared mine, pulling me in until the music faded. An easy smile tipped up the edges of his lips, and my heart beat faster. An image of him walking down the stairs towards me last night popped into my head. What were the chances that I’d stumble upon him twice in two nights?
He looked different with his long hair falling in messy waves. Last night he’d been cleaner cut with his hair pulled back. He’d been hot then, but this…
Glancing away, he raised a bottle to his lips and my eyes dipped, taking in the tight swimmer’s build hidden beneath his plain white t-shirt and black jeans. His trousers moulded to his thighs, and the shirt was so thin he might as well have been topless. If I’d met him last year, I might have taken it as an invitation.
Why did I remember him? I was usually terrible with faces, and our interaction had lasted a matter of seconds.
I caught my gaze before it could fall further and forced my attention back to his face. His lips twitched and my face warmed. He’d caught my once-over. Still, I couldn’t look away. I didn’t think I’d ever grow tired of that smile.
A tall, thin guy covered in tattoos turned to follow the direction of his stare. He smirked, slapping my watcher on the back before leaning in. His lips moved, and the pair laughed. He gave him a shove towards me, and my stomach dropped. Looking was one thing, but being approached in this dive bar was not on my agenda. I didn’t care how he made my pulse race; I was done with men.
I tore my eyes away and unlocked my phone to check messages, social media – anything to distract me. When my eyes tipped up again, drawn to him by some cruel magnetic force, he was openly grinning at me from across the room.
Heat suffused my body, and I willed it away. All of my attempts to let people in had backfired. I was tired of trying, of getting my heart broken. And I was sick of men taking advantage and treating me like their plaything. After my last mishap, it was becoming clear that true happiness would not include a man. I wasn’t sure I wanted it to, anyway.
A nice house with Emily close by would do me fine.
I frowned at my phone. It revealed no more clues than the strangers surrounding me. It wasn’t like her to ditch me without at least a text, and Emily hadn’t been online in four hours. My fingers hovered over the keyboard while I chewed my lip in indecision. She hadn’t seen my last ten messages either. This was not like her.
Fuck it. Another text couldn’t hurt.
Alys
Where are you? Gig’s started and the wine sucks. HURRY UP! Xxx
I stared at the screen for another minute out of some misguided hope that little speech bubbles would appear. They didn’t.
“You’ve either been stood up or your friends are late,” someone shouted above me. Air tickled my ear. The sound startled me enough that I added my foul wine to the sticky cocktail coating the old rubber floor.
My head snapped up. The god from across the room grinned down at me, his crystal-blue eyes captivating. His slightly crooked smile jump-started my pulse, and my grip on common sense slipped.
I frowned at his nose. Not quite a god. The tiny bump on the bridge would have ruled him out of godhood.
“None of the above?” He leaned towards me to be heard over the caterwauling filtering through the amps. His trim body blocked out the stage, and I couldn’t find it in me to be mad about it.
My lungs filled with his smouldering, spicy scent, and if I weren’t a trained dancer, my knees might have buckled. What the utter hell?
Eyes narrowed, I considered his open, patient face. There were two kinds of attractive men: the ones who were oblivious to their power, and the ones who knew their effect and exploited it.
This guy knew he was good-looking, and he expected me to fall at his feet. I should have spotted it last night. I’d had enough experience with his type over the years to know that I hated that kind of man. They were always looking for better, and they had a nasty habit of disappearing right when your heart decided it was safe to let them in.
And yet that smile and those eyes still held me. I couldn’t make myself turn away. “My friend’s late.”
“Remind me to thank her,” he shouted.
A small part of me was grateful for my three-inch boots. With men over six feet, they made the height difference far more manageable. His eyes bore into mine, fixated. I could feel the heat radiating off his body, and my lower belly clenched in response. Hate these men or not, my body couldn’t ignore their charm.
I’d dated a lot over the years – setups, online matches, one-night stands, unwise attempts at relationships – but none of them had made the room fade or my throat close up with nerves. Not even one of them had captivated me with nothing but a smile or made my heart race with the caress of their gaze. Somehow this one cut through the disinterest. I frowned.
“So, this is going to sound crazy, but you seem really familiar,” he said.
Relief snatched my unwanted nerves. I wasn’t odd for remembering such a brief encounter. “We passed each other on the stairs last night at the Old Ballroom.”
His shoulders relaxed at my response. That easy smile creased his eyes, and my chest tightened. “We did, but I don’t think that’s it.”
I searched his face for clues. I’d have remembered meeting him before yesterday. No way would I forget his quiet confidence or my inexplicable fascination with the quirk of his lips.
“You were on the set of the Mystery Lines show this summer, right?”
I nodded. I’d been on it since May, rode out an uneasy couple of weeks short of production staff and still produced what would hopefully be the next contender for an Emmy or BAFTA.
He raised the bottle to his lips, grinning. “I thought so.”
My brows creased as I searched my memories from the summer. I couldn’t place him on my set. I would have noticed him.
“My mate, Shaun Martin, was in it. You’re the woman who told the crew off for being callous idiots.”
I covered my face, shaking my head. “You saw that?”
Callused fingers gently pulled my hand away from my eyes. “Don’t be embarrassed. It was brilliant. They all stood about while the chaperone tried to get a handle on that little girl. You jumped right in and calmed her down.”
“She was going blue in the face. Someone had to do something before she passed out.”
“And that someone was you?”
“No one else had the sense to, so yeah, it had to be me.” My throat hurt from shouting, but I didn’t want to stop talking to him.
“I left the set pretty fast. How did they all take it?” he asked, rocking back on his heels while I squirmed with remembered embarrassment.
“My production manager found it funny. The rest of them tiptoed around me for a couple of days.” I watched the swirl of wine in my plastic cup while I spoke.
“It was brave,” he said, his tone firm.
I peeked at him from beneath my lashes. His eyes travelled across my face, seeming to absorb every detail. “You think so?”
He nodded. “Hundred per cent.”
“Did Shaun Martin really see?” I asked, my voice tentative and barely audible. He stared at my lips, frowning as he tried to decipher my question.
Shaun Martin was the leading man of the series and kind of a big deal, even if he had started out trying to tank his career. At the beginning of production for Mystery Lines, he’d tried to get plenty of people fired. He hadn’t been successful, and thankfully he’d gotten over whatever had been making him act out. But I’d still disrupted set, even if I was defending a helpless girl. Someone like him hated wasting time, and I’m sure he could talk a producer into giving him anything he wanted the next time around, including not hiring a brazen production coordinator.
The frown cleared and Blondie’s amused eyes were appraising when they jumped back to mine. “He thought it was impressive too. His assistant was quite the firecracker. You gave her a run for her money.”
“You met Mona?”
He nodded. “A couple of times now. Do you know her well?”
I shrugged. “A little. I hired her.”
His unfocused eyes shifted to the left. “When she was trying to get out from under Shaun, you mean?”
“I didn’t know they were involved at the time, but I guess so.”
Our production secretary quit without notice two months in. She’d been missed, and the production team had struggled to absorb her tasks. For a couple of weeks, we floundered trying to keep on top of the last-minute transport and accommodation changes for the entire cast and crew, as well as prepare the sides for the next day. When Mona accepted my offer to jump ship and join production, I snapped her up without much thought. Thankfully, Shaun hadn’t been pissed, and it hadn’t backfired on me.
“Did you find out why she was crying?” he asked, bringing me back to the present.
I frowned at the sudden question. My mind raced, trying to figure out how it applied to Mona. I’d never seen her cry.
“What?”
“The girl.” His intense blue eyes snared me like a trap. Why do I feel the urge to spill all my secrets to this guy every time our eyes meet? “Did you find out why she was upset?”
The genuine interest in his gaze both intrigued and terrified me. Men rarely cared about my job. They asked the perfunctory questions about meeting famous people, but their eyes always glazed over when I tried to go deeper. Not this guy. I liked it too much.
“She missed her mother. She died a couple of months before, and it was her first acting gig without her.” A pang hit me in the chest. I tried to force that memory out of my mind by raising the awful wine to my mouth and focusing on the acidic liquid searing my taste buds. It didn’t help.
Our only child actress had thrown a fit because no one had danced her around the space or read lines with her. Like her mother did and never would again.
His amusement faded. “Poor kid.” Admiration filled his tone when he added: “I’ve never seen someone soothe a kid so fast. Good work.”
Heat spread up my neck and into my cheeks.
“Hey, don’t be embarrassed. It took guts.” He raised his drink to his lips without breaking eye contact. “There were loads of people there whose job it was to look after the kid, right?”
“Yes, but I went about it wrong. I should have spoken to the director and had him step in.” But I hadn’t really been thinking. I’d heard her cry and reacted.
“Your way was far more badass.” He smiled. My lips curved in response. “I’m sorry for staring. I guess your face stuck with me after that.”
I nodded. My eyes drifted towards the stairs, hoping Emily would magically appear and let me escape his sincere light. But no luck. Emily was still MIA and this guy still drew me in. So much for dousing the flames.
For the first time, I noticed the sound engineer glaring with his arms crossed at the idiot on stage swinging the mic at the very tip of safe. Somebody really should stop him before he hits someone. Hell, if it meant he’d stop screaming, I’d do it. There was screamo and then there was this ear-destroying monstrosity. There were plenty of leather-wearing men in the room sporting spiky jewellery who probably loved it, but even they frowned at the band.
“Do you like this type of music?” My persistent companion shouted. He tapped my arm with his cold plastic bottle, drawing my attention back to him. Goose bumps broke out, raising the hairs on my skin.
“How can you call this noise music?” I asked, pretending that I knew enough about it to have an opinion beyond the Top 40.
He shrugged. “Some people like it.”
“But not you?” I held my breath, hopeful I’d at last found some reason to push him away.
“Definitely not me. I like my music to have understandable lyrics.”
Relief coursed through me before I could squash it. So maybe I didn’t want him to leave. My eyes widened as they travelled between the stage and him. “That has lyrics?”
He chuckled. “They say it does. I have my doubts.”
I glanced over his shoulder at his friends. They were engrossed in a heated argument and seemingly oblivious to his absence. They gestured wildly between them, their faces animated and invested.
“What’s that about?” I asked, nodding towards them.
“Who knows? Jared probably said something to wind them up.” He pointed over his shoulder. “That’s normal. I’m far more interested in you.”
I laughed. “Smooth.”
He ran his free hand through his hair, grinning boyishly at me. “I’m not all that great with that kind of thing.”
I snorted and his lips widened, revealing a flash of his teeth.
“I’d rather not get drawn into whatever they’re arguing about. Would you mind if I kept hanging out with you?” The words hit me as effectively as if he’d whispered them in my ear.
The answer should have been no, instantaneous and swift rolling off my lips. I wasn’t interested in taking this brief flirtation further. I definitely didn’t want to lead anyone on. Yet I smiled and nodded.
Relief slivered across his face before his confident demeanour fell back into place.
“If you could have dinner with only two of your favourite artists, who would you pick?” His eyes wandered across my face, taking in my surprise. “What? Were you expecting me to ask something else?”
“Maybe.”
“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”
I shook my head, unsure if he meant my pick of artists or the question I’d expected to fall from his lips. The surprising man wasn’t so straightforward.
“You don’t want to know the answer,” I said.
“Fair warning. If you say Matthew Tuck from Bullet for My Valentine, I’m going to call you a hypocrite.” His eyes sparkled, and a ridiculous thrill swept through me. I enjoyed him looking at me with that teasing glint.
I’d heard of Bullet for My Valentine. I’d have to live in a cave not to have. They were a Welsh band from a couple towns over, but I had no idea what they sounded like. “Okay. You still don’t want to hear my answer.”
He stepped closer and his face lit up. He laughed at me. “Now I need to know. It can’t be that bad. You don’t look like the sort to love teeny-bopper music.”
I laughed too, basking in his attention despite myself. “I’d probably invite Halsey and the Ward Thomas sisters.”
He pointed at me. “That’s three.”
“I can’t exactly split up the Ward Thomas sisters.”
“Then you need to pick just them.”
“Or I could pick someone else.”
He gestured for me to do so.
“Tanc Sade.”
He frowned, focusing on a point beyond me. “He’s not a musician.”
“He played one.”
“Yes, but he’s not a real musician.” He smirked, shaking his head. “You’re terrible at this game,” he said, raising the bottle to his lips.
“I did warn you.”
He laughed, the sound rushing around me in a rare break in the music and drawing an uncontrollable smile from me. I could feel my resolve weakening. It would be wise to leave before I forgot why I needed a break from men in the first place. My eyes strayed to the stairs, but I stayed rooted to the spot. Just a few more minutes.

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