Rock My Heart: A Rockstar Romance (Mephisto Book 1) Read online

  Rock My Heart

  Mephisto Series book 1

  Nadia Blair

  Copyright © 2021 by Nadia Blair

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN: 979-8-51581294-2

  Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.

  First printing edition 2021

  Front cover image by James T. Egan at Bookfly Design.

  www.NadiaBair.com

  This one is for you, Tanga. I still owe you a month’s worth of steak dinners!

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Nadia Blair

  1

  The tan interior was stale with the scents of decaying foam rubber and tobacco. When had Sloan Elliot last been in a taxi? Hadn’t he once sworn he’d never take their success for granted? Then again, it was easy to swear grandiose promises to the universe at the tender age of twenty-one. Looking back at it from a distance of nearly a decade-and-a-half, Sloan knew better than to offer rash vows to anyone: man, God, or especially a woman.

  He leaned back against the cracked vinyl and listened to the taxi’s radio with half an ear. Broken heart and broken dreams/ Here I am, fraying apart at the seams …

  Not an original phrase to be had. Nothing left but trite clichés and soulless places. There was an unsettling metaphor in that somewhere.

  The banal pop song came to an end just as the taxi pulled up before the midtown Manhattan hotel. He reached for his wallet and started to pull out a card. Couldn’t do that; they could track him with one swipe of the AmEx. Cash, then. He handed the cabbie a hundred-dollar bill and reached for the door handle.

  “Hey, wait, man. Let me get your change.”

  “No worries, mate. Keep it.”

  As Sloan slid from the cab, the cabbie’s eyes narrowed in sudden recognition. “Hey. Ain’t you—?”

  “No. I’m not.” He turned his back on the cabbie’s gaping face and headed for the entrance. No red-coated doorman, or bellboys eager to take a bag he was perfectly capable of carrying. He stepped from the blue heat of a summer night in the city into the lobby’s artificial chill.

  As he strode up to the check-in desk, the middle-aged clerk smiled at him. “Good evening, sir. What name is your reservation under?”

  Hell. Should have thought of that. He’d been far too busy evading his minders to consider what he’d do in the unlikely event he got free of the lot of them.

  The desk clerk was waiting for a response.

  “Ah, I don’t exactly have a reservation. Last-minute change of plans. I was hoping you’d have something available.”

  “No problem. Let me see here.” She typed away at her keyboard. Sloan let his gaze drift over the small lobby. A grouping of pale Scandinavian-spare couches surrounded modular coffee tables. The light fixture above was a tangle of silver wires and bare bulbs. Uber-trendy, but the boutique hotel was low-key enough it wouldn’t be the first place they’d look for him.

  “It looks like we do have a few rooms available. We did just have a cancellation on one of our deluxe suites. It has a stunning view of the city, a whirlpool tub—”

  “You don’t have to sell me on it, love. I’ll take it.”

  “But I haven’t told you how much it is.”

  “Do I look like I care?” He grinned at her. Hell. Stop that. You’re supposed to be incognito, remember?

  “All right, then. How many nights?”

  He hesitated. If only he could drop out of sight for a week. A month. An eon.

  You tried that already, and just look where it got you.

  “Just the one.”

  “I’ll need a credit card and your passport.”

  He really should work on his American accent. But it was probably the Aussie-isms that were the dead giveaways.

  “You don’t really need to see my identification, do you?” His bandmate Micah would have done the Jedi hand-wave thing. But Sloan slanted her the killer grin that had made him the coveted cover image on many a magazine. “I can assure you the only nefarious activity I’m up to tonight will be pillaging the minibar.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, I can’t—”

  All right, time for a little green persuasion. He plucked a few bills from his wallet and set them on the counter. “This should be more than enough to cover any incidentals.”

  The woman glanced between him and the pile of cash. “I really can’t let you have a room without proper identification—”

  Left with no real choice, he plunked his passport on the desk. It listed him as William Sloan Elliot. And the photo was on par with identification pictures everywhere. In fact, it made him look almost … average. Maybe she wouldn’t recognize him. The clerk glanced at his information, started typing. Blinked twice at the screen. Stared at his passport photo. Stole a glance at him.

  Fuck.

  The shellacked lips parted. “You’re not … you’re … The Wolf?” Her voice rose a few decibels.

  He winced, and shot a glance over his shoulder. Fortunately the lobby was empty at 8:30 on a Tuesday. No random bystanders all-too-willing to turn impromptu paparazzi. “In the flesh, as it were,” he said to the clerk. “But I’m incognito at the moment.” He dug another few bills from his wallet. “You think you could put me down as, er, Mr. Smith or something?”

  The clerk glanced over her shoulder, as if she expected her supervisor to magically appear at any instant. “Well…” She eyed the stack of bills. Licked her lips. “I guess I could un-cancel Mr. Gordon’s reservation. Not like anyone would know the difference.” She resumed typing. “Now, Mr. Gordon, you did just say the one night, correct?”

  “Yeah.” As if that’d be enough to clear his head. “Here’s a little extra for your discretion.” He tossed another hundred-dollar bill on the desk.

  “Thank you, Mr. Wolf. I mean, Gordon.” She fumbled with his keycard, flushing when their hands brushed. “Enjoy your stay, sir.”

  “Thanks. I fully intend to.”

  As he headed for the elevator, she called, “Mr. Gordon, if you need anything, anything at all—”

  “I’ll howl, love,” he assured her, and was rewarded with a fit of feminine laughter as the elevator doors slid closed behind him.

  He had an entertaining night scheduled. Ha. No, unscheduled, damn it all. No bloody daily schedule and minders to see he stuck to it. The only diet he meant to stick to was a strict regimen of room service, minibar, and brain-rotting TV. With no distractions every five seconds, no assistants, no wardrobe people, no hovering hangers-on, no manager.

  No goddamn, mother-fucking, control-freak, son-of-a-whoring dingo bandmates.

  He was finally alone, finally free.

  So why did he have the insane urge to laugh, or maybe how
l like he was on stage, roaring into the microphone while 50,000 fans shrieked in adoration of their chosen god?

  He clutched the railing bolted to the side of the elevator. What the hell was wrong with him? You’d think he was finally cracking up or something.

  Wonderful. He’d become a singing, strutting, hotel-room-trashing cliché.

  The elevator doors shuffled open and Sloan stalked out.

  In his time, he’d seen everything from roach-infested walk-ups to five-star VIP suites, but the beige carpet and soulless modern art decorating the hallway of this hotel set his nerves on edge. It was all as blank and mocking as an empty page.

  He found the right room number, inserted the keycard and stepped into the suite. The dim glow from the hallway lit a surprisingly small room, filled with an armless tan sofa, a flat screen TV, a desk, and a large bed. No sweeping staircase, soaring ceilings, grand piano or gilt-encrusted surfaces in sight. The ordinariness of the room felt odd.

  And yet, the cost of this suite was probably more than they’d earned per gig, back in the early days. He stripped off his jacket, Yankees cap and sunglasses. He kicked off his shoes and paused to sniff his T-shirt, snorting at the reek of tobacco that clung to the fabric.

  Goddamn Mac and his smoking. With a muttered curse, Sloan stripped out of his shirt and jeans, then sank back on the bed and turned on the telly. Talking heads appeared, a man and woman with matching helmet-hair, solemnly reciting a list of the day’s tragic events. He changed the channel. Cooking show, talk show, more news. Commercials. He paused on MTV long enough to glare at the vapid tweenage personalities of their latest reality show. Kids these days didn’t even remember the era when Music Television had actually showed music videos. Really, if that wasn’t a sign of the End Times, then what was?

  Aw, shut up.

  Bloody pills. Any moment, I’m gonna start lookin’ for nirvana in my bloody navel.

  He shouldn’t have taken the anti-anxiety meds their manager, Cedric, had foisted on him in a failed attempt to get him to chill out, prior to his abrupt departure.

  He turned the channel again and scowled at another news anchor. The program cut to a video clip depicting a tall, red-haired woman, clad in some historical costume, strolling across a verdant lawn.

  Christ. Turn. The. Fucking. Channel.

  His hand froze on the remote as the redhead glanced over her shoulder with a naughty smile. It was a look she did well … a look that had once rendered him breathless with longing.

  The announcer’s words impinged on his consciousness. “… Jackson and costar Natasha Bernard are hard at work on their newest film, a period drama set prior to the French Revolution. Since her split just over a year ago from long-time partner Sloan Elliot, frontman of Mephisto, she’s been keeping a low profile in her native England.”

  Low profile? Don’t tell him she felt something so acute as shame, much less remorse, for the way she’d walked out on him. Not bloody likely. If she’d been keeping a low profile, it was probably to avoid the fans and the taunting.

  The newswoman had moved on to a new story, airing the dirty laundry of some other poor slobs who had the misfortune to be amongst the rich and famous. He jabbed at the remote and sat staring at the blank screen. A headache was brewing right behind his eyes.

  He needed a drink.

  Madelynn Crenshaw squirmed on the seat, took a deep breath and tried not to fidget. She should have called up Gerald and the town car. He wouldn’t have minded taking her to her destination. But if she’d done so, there was no way it wouldn’t have gotten back to her mother.

  All right, so maybe she couldn’t face another third degree and the inevitable lecture.

  She clutched her evening bag, feeling the comforting shape of the pill bottle beneath the beaded satin. Maybe she should take one. It would calm her nerves.

  No. She wanted to experience every single moment, and the Xanax tended to give everything a fuzzy sort of haze.

  Her cell chimed, and Madelynn jumped. She dug it out of her bag. Grant? No, of course not. He didn’t know she was coming. Which was kind of the point. She glanced at the screen and winced.

  Let it go to voicemail. Pointless. She’d just call back. “Hi, Mother.”

  “Madelynn.” Linda Crenshaw’s brisk tones overwhelmed the small space of the cab. “Where are you?”

  “On my way to see Grant. We have a date.” It wasn’t exactly a lie; just because Grant didn’t know about it yet didn’t mean it wasn’t a date.

  Linda let out a long-suffering sigh. “I wish you’d find some nice local man so you could have a meaningful relationship.”

  Madelynn frowned. Just because she had no particular desire to date the up-and-coming lawyers her mother kept shoving at her didn’t mean she had no desire for a meaningful relationship.

  Grant’s crazy international schedule might preclude more than dinner dates a few times a month, but at least when he saw her, he didn’t see her mother and the whole political machine that went with her.

  Her mother was still speaking. “… aren’t on the subway at this time of night, are you? Surely I raised you with better sense than that.”

  You raised me, Mother? Surely not. Where had that unruly thought come from? Blame the long day, or the late hour for a work night, or the way her new heels pinched.

  “I took a cab.”

  “A cab?” Madelynn could hear the frown in her voice. “Do you know how unsanitary those are? How dangerous, after dark? Do you know how many young women get mugged or assaulted in taxis each year? Do you, Madelynn?”

  “I’d really prefer not to know.” As if that were an option.

  She leaned back, watched the mosaic of dark and light passing by and tuned out her mother’s recital of crime statistics. She considered mentioning the unlikelihood of being attacked by a cabbie in midtown Manhattan at 9:45 on a Tuesday night.

  “You could have called up Gerald. He would have been happy to take you wherever you wished to go—even to see that boorish man you insist on dating.”

  How would you know? You’ve never even met him. But she didn’t say it aloud, because she really didn’t want to start a fight and ruin her good mood before she even got to Grant’s door. Because, beneath her little black dress and Manolos, Madelynn Crenshaw was a coward.

  She muttered something non-committal and ended the call. As the cab pulled up in front of the hotel, she dragged in a deep breath and let it out. It didn’t help.

  Was she really doing this?

  Yes. Yes, she was.

  She was going to do it. She was going to show Grant Gordon, her on-again-off-again boyfriend, that she could be fun and spontaneous and all those other things he’d said were lacking in their relationship, the last time they’d spoken. She was going to seal the deal, as he’d say in his droll English manner.

  She paid the cabbie and got out, stumbling briefly in her new heels. Shushing the voice of worry nattering away in the back of her head, she raised her head and strode into the well-lit lobby as if she were, in fact, a poised, confident woman.

  Madelynn hesitated just inside the doorway. What if this had been a mistake? Grant wasn’t expecting her until tomorrow. What if he hadn’t left a key for her?

  What if he didn’t even want to see her?

  Maybe she shouldn’t do this. But his words echoed vividly in memory. “Madelynn, you’re not spontaneous enough. You don’t have the slightest inkling how to have fun. I hate to say this, crumpet, but you’re boring.”

  Boring? Ha! She’d show him just how un-boring she could be. But first she had to get past the gatekeepers. She halted at the check-in desk.

  The middle-aged clerk glanced up. “May I help you?”

  Madelynn’s mind went blank. Oh, God, this was a really horrible idea. No, really, you should turn around now, before you make a complete idiot of yourself.

  “Miss?”

  The woman was waiting for a response. “Uh … I’m sorry. I’m here to see my boyfriend. He should ha
ve left a key for me.” Liar, liar.

  “Certainly. What room is it?”

  “I, uh, I don’t know, you see.” When the clerk merely stared, Madelynn fought the urge to fidget. “Ah … that is to say, he’s not expecting me till tomorrow. I thought I’d surprise him. He’s from out-of-town, you see, just got in. The room should be registered under the name Mr. Gordon.” She smiled at her, hoping the check-in clerk would take pity on her.

  “Mr. Gordon?” The woman gave her a funny look.

  “He should be in one of the deluxe suites,” Madelynn added helpfully.

  A slow smile crossed the woman’s vermillion lips. “Oh, yeah. I remember him.”

  “You know which room he’s in?”

  “Yup.”

  Madelynn blinked at her. “Could I have a key? Please?”

  The woman shook her head. “I’m sorry, honey, but it’s against policy. I really can’t.”

  “I don’t suppose you could make an exception, just this once?”

  The clerk leaned closer, her voice dropping. “Listen, honey, you look real high class, but this isn’t the sort of place where you can come and go by the hour, if you know what I mean.”

  “Excuse me?” Was the woman saying what she thought she was saying?

  “No offense.” She shrugged.

  Madelynn drew herself up to her full diminutive, height. “Grant Gordon is my boyfriend, and—and—” She could call Grant, and ask him to set this woman straight, but that would ruin the surprise. What would her mother do in this situation? She put on her frostiest smile. “I’d like to speak to your manager. Now.”