Too Many Rock Stars

By: Candy J. Starr

 (Access All Areas #1)


Chapter 1 VIOLET

I woke up cranky, as you do when someone disturbs your precious dreams. Who the hell was in my office anyway? This was the off-limits part of Trouble, even when the club was open – which it wasn't. I jumped up, ready to brain the intruder with whatever was closest to hand. I reached out and found my boot, hurling it at the spot the noise had come from.

"What the fuck, Violet? Are you insane?"

"Razer, what the fuck are you doing in here? Get the fuck out."

"Settle down. I'd just dropped by to see if you could slot us in soon. We need to play some more gigs. We're getting restless."

The bulk of him in the doorway blocked the light from outside. He was a big guy, the kind of guy women swoon over. If you like that kind of thing. Tall, dark, chiselled cheekbones, close-cropped hair, and a hard body covered with tattoos kind of thing, I mean. I know women who'd kill for a night with Razer but I wouldn't be joining that queue.

"More like you've run out of money. And there's this invention. It's pretty amazing. It's called the telephone. You should look into it sometime. And, hey, once you master that, you can move on to this other amazing thing called the Internet. In fact, there are a heap of amazing devices you can use to communicate with people nowadays without ever having to leave your house. Go try them and I'll see if I can fit you in somewhere."

I just wanted him out of my office. When I call it my office, you have to understand that I'm being very generous with that term. It was an office in the way that offices have desks and chairs and that people work in them but that was about it. This room was little more than a broom closet, buried deep in the back of the building. The room had thin wood panel walls, one with a hole punched through it, and the room stunk of stale beer.

I had a ratty old desk and a chair. The sofa I used for my naps had been dragged out of the club when it'd gotten too busted up to be safe. There was a hole under the cushions and, if you didn't sit on it just right, you could end up buried in it. I'd thrown a blanket over it so my skin didn't come into contact with the fabric, because fuck knows what cocktail of fluids had ended up on it.

There was no window and the place was hotter than hell. I'd had on my electrical fan on but turned that off when I'd decided to nap because everyone knows it's dangerous to sleep with a fan going. Even with it going, it just moved the hot air around.

I rubbed my eyes, all hope of sleep gone now. It'd be 5am at the earliest before I got to bed. It was fine for guys like Razer. They could nap when they wanted. Seriously, if you want to ask someone a favour, you should do it by letting them sleep.

Razer moved into the room and leaned against my desk. I hated that. Butt germs all over it. He let a lazy grin unfold over his face. Like that could charm me. Then I noticed the full force of his attack. The t-shirt that highlighted his muscular body, not quite long enough, so that when he reached up, I got the glimpse of the curve of his hip bone.

This guy was a piece of work.

That kind of shit had no place in my office though. I never dated rockers. Never slept with them. Never even swapped spit. I'd been in this job long enough to know what a bunch of screwed up, egotistical jerks they were. Some of them might seem okay at first but that's just because they've learnt to hide it better than others. The deeper you dug, the more arsehole you’d find buried there.

I had a job to do and there was a hard line between work and play. Don't shit where you eat.

"Is that all you wanted?" I said, waving him away. Really, he'd been hanging around just a bit too much lately. I didn't like the way he thought he could infringe on my space. There had to be something up.

He'd moved so close, I could smell him. Even my nose was being invaded by him. Strangely, he didn't smell of sweat like I'd have thought. There was something else missing too. I sniffed again before realising how weird I was being. Rockers, they have this smell. You pick it up even if a dude is behind the counter in a bank working his day job. Something like the lingering undertones of sour mash whisky mixed with late nights and an overinflated sense of self-worth.

Was he even a rocker?

I'd seen him on stage, singing and playing guitar, and he could sure rock the hell out of the place. Nothing missing there, that's for sure. When he was on stage, even I gave him a second glance. Occasionally. When no one was looking.

▶ Also By Candy J. Starr

▶ Last Updated

▶ Hot Read

▶ Recommend

Top Books