Melody of Truth (Love of a Rockstar Book 3)
Read Melody of Truth (Love of a Rockstar Book 3) Online
Authors: Nicole Simone
Copyright © 2016 Nicole Simone
All rights reserved
No parts of this publication may be reproduced, disturbed or transmitted in any form or by any means including electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the written consent of the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are a products of the author’s imagination or used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or publisher.
Editor: C Marie
Proofreader: Ashley Williams.
Book design by
Inkstain Interior Book Designing
Cover Designer: Romantic Book Affairs
Love of a Rockstar Series
Love of a Rockstar
To Cherish and To Hold
Broken Lullabies
Melody of Truth
Rhythm Blues - December 2016
Standalone Novels
Jagged Love
The Accidental Kiss
Twisted Fate Series
The Road in Between
The Road to Leading to You
Acknowledgments
About Nicole
THIS WAS A TERRIBLE IDEA
—worse than the time I ate a spider because my sister bet me fifty bucks I wouldn’t. As soon as my tongue brushed its furry legs, I hurled into the grass while she laughed, triumphant.
That was gross, but this—this was just plain stupid. I rolled my carryon suitcase off the plane and into the bustling Seattle airport. As I followed the signs for the taxicab pickup area, a war raged inside my brain.
A year ago, I was in Uganda filming a documentary about the genocide and interviewing victims who told stories so heartbreaking they stayed with me long after I returned home. Now I’m in Seattle to film the untold tale of Matthew Lee, former lead singer turned solo artist/rock god.
How the hell did this happen?
The diamond on my left ring finger flashed in the light, reminding me of the life I had run from in New York.
Right. Marco happened.
Marco was the man who captured my heart at twenty-two with his bronzed skin, tantalizing accent, and wavy Fabio-like locks; he practically dripped with sexuality. After returning back to the States from my year abroad in Spain where I met him, we formed a long-distance friendship. Then that friendship turned into more after a drunken one-night stand three months ago.
I honestly thought he would be gone in the morning when I woke up, but instead he never left.
Late at night as I lay in bed, my mind would wander to my future with Marco—what it would look like, how many kids we would have, where we would put down roots, the whole nine yards—except, try as I might, none of that appeared. It was like a filmstrip that had been damaged.
It didn’t make any sense to me. Marco was my dream guy and never in my wildest dreams had I thought I would get to call him mine forever. I should have been over the moon about our upcoming wedding, yet the ring he’d slipped on my finger felt like a vice. It could have been my fear of holy matrimony.
Yes, it had to be that—just simple pure fear; nothing to do with Marco.
Nonetheless, I placed the ring in my pocket and ignored the twinge of guilt in my stomach. I jumped into a yellow taxicab and arrived a few minutes early to the posh hotel where I was meeting the band.
A set of revolving doors spit me out into the white lobby, which was decorated with a rug that looked like a dead Muppet. There were beanbag chairs scattered around the lounge area to the left, along with long S-shaped couches in flaring hot pink that made me feel like I needed to be wearing sunglasses.
My rumbling stomach pointed me toward the hotel restaurant, which was designed more tastefully than the monstrosity of a lobby. I sidled up to the bar and placed my order with the bartender: a veggie hamburger and fries with extra salt.
Marco didn’t allow junk food in the apartment. He believed a pure body equaled a pure mind, or some crap like that. Honestly, I tuned him out when he started spouting his hippy dippy mumbo jumbo.
My mother had raised me on the preservatives he deemed evil and I had turned out fine—a little soft in the middle, but otherwise fine. Besides, it was sacrilegious to deny yourself a cookie every once in a while.
A heaping plate of food slid in front of me. The smell of grilled onions made my mouth salivate and I greedily dug in. At first bite, my eyes rolled to the back of my head.
“I admire a woman with a ferocious appetite.”
My gaze slid to the barstool next to mine, which was occupied by a man in his mid-forties with a horseshoe bald patch and a doughy jawline. The lecherous grin he wore spelled sleaze in bright red letters.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “But do you mind? I want to eat my meal in peace. It’s been a long day.”
“Of course. Go ahead.”
“Thank you.”
I could feel his eyes on me as my hands gripped the perfectly soft brioche bun. Watching someone eat was equivalent to following them into the bathroom—you just don’t do it.
Irritation snaked into my veins. Setting the burger down, I glanced back over at the stranger; he had that same grin on his face, and now it had climbed to pervert status. A couple years ago, I’d done a documentary on weird sexual fetishes, food being one of them. The slight rise in the man’s trousers proved what I had suspected; I swore freaks were attracted to me like moths to a flame.
I spoke bluntly. “Look, I know what you’re doing, and while everybody is entitled to their own kinks, I don’t want any part of it, capiche?”
He blinked innocently at me. “And what am I doing exactly?”
Ratfink bastard. I snatched my plate off the bar and moved to a booth in the far corner. While the man continued to stare, at least he didn’t have a front row seat any more. After polishing off my burger and fries, I hurriedly paid and walked to the front. As I passed the pervert, he swiveled in his seat with a bottle of ketchup in hand. The red liquid splashed onto my white button-down and a red stain blossomed as if I had been shot.
“What the fuck?” I screamed.
“Oh no! I’m so sorry, let me help.” He went toward my boobs with a napkin but then paused. “Or better yet, maybe you should take it off.”
Dots exploded in my peripheral as my body shook with anger. I grabbed hold of the ketchup and dumped it over the asshole’s head. His mouth formed a perfect O as it dripped into his eyes. Waiters hurried over, armed with cleaning supplies. I dismissed their help and exited the restaurant, leaving a wake of chaos.
Safely in the hallway, I gripped the sodden shirt between my fingertips and scowled. “This day can’t get any worse.”
The universe decided otherwise. Suddenly, a thousand-pound football player barreled into me, stealing the air from my lungs. My arms windmilled at my sides as I attempted to keep both feet on the ground, which proved futile—I had the grace of a lumbering elephant. A shooting ache shot up my spine when my ass met the floor, and to my embarrassment, tears welled in the corners of my eyes.
“Holy shit!” the football player exclaimed. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you.”
“I was standing in the middle of the hallway.”
“Around a blind turn.”
Was he really pinning half the blame on me? I rubbed the base of my tailbone. “You’re right. Next time, I’ll stop in a more convenient location.”
“Are you bleeding?” Horror leaked into his voice.
An explanation was on the tip of my tongue but before it could come out, he gripped me by my elbows and yanked me upright. His large hands patted down my torso, checking for any injuries. The smell of juniper berries, fresh and sweet like the middle of an evergreen forest, caught me off guard. Instead of being outraged at him for feeling me up, I wanted to trace the vein in his neck with my tongue to see if he tasted like berries as well.
God, what was wrong with me?
His thumb brushed my nipple, and reality dumped itself over my head, colder than an ice bath. I shoved him backward with the heels of my palms. The brute barely moved an inch. “Jesus! Don’t you have any manners?”
“I thought you were hurt.”
“It’s ketchup you idiot.”
My eyes lifted and came in contact with none other than Sean Dallis, Matthew Lee’s drummer. His long whitish-blond locks swooped across his forehead, highlighting the blue in his irises, and a light tan dusted his cheeks. Sean looked like he belonged in the ocean, cruising the waves, his ripped torso glistening in the hot summer heat as he maneuvered the surfboard with ease.
“Ketchup? Huh.”
I could feel his assessing stare in every fiber of my being, melting my bones into a pile of goo. It made sense now why after Sean and his ex-wife's split had become public, women were offering themselves to him like a pint of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream.
My gaze flittered to my shirt, and then to the ground, where I studied a spot on the carpet as if it was a Picasso painting. I wracked my brain trying to think of a clever response but came up blank.
“How did that happen?”
Sean’s smooth voice skittered down my spine. “Some asshole spilled it on me as I was walking past him.” I grinned. “He looks worse than me though.”
“I somehow have no doubt about that.”
Matching Sean’s smile, my stomach tumbled, and I got lost in his eyes for a hot second. They were bluer than the waters of the Bahamas.
I cleared my throat and made a move to go around him. “Excuse me.”
His fingers gripped my upper arm while he looked at me with obvious interest. “What’s your name?”
“Melody.” Not a flicker of recognition flashed across his face. “I’m here for a meeting with Matthew Lee and the rest of the band, including you.”
“Wait, you’re the filmmaker?”
“Is that so hard to believe?”
Sean’s brow pinched together as if he were trying to solve a complex puzzle. It was a reaction I got often. People didn’t expect a petite woman like myself to venture into the most dangerous places in the world with a camera in tow.
“I just thought you would be…”
“Someone taller with a unibrow and a fat hairy upper lip?”
He smiled. “Maybe.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
“Trust me, it’s far from a disappointment.”
Warning lights flashed as I grinned back at him, my heart palpitating. Touring with a bunch of rock stars—especially one as tempting as Sean—took the cake for worst idea ever.